


The Hand of the King

by holysmotez



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Altea (Voltron), Alternate Universe, Amnesia, Angst, Artificial Intelligence, Blood and Violence, Cybernetics, Fluff and Angst, Friendship/Love, Galra Empire, Keith's soul inhabits Shiro's arm, Kerberos Mission, M/M, Not Beta Read, Pining, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Soul Bond, Terrestrial - Freeform, Trauma, What if Keith was literally Shiro's arm, What-If, Writing Exercise, black lion - Freeform, canon events, fictional universe, mild adashi, pre-kerberos stuff, some violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-12
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2019-08-01 04:57:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 93,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16278236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holysmotez/pseuds/holysmotez
Summary: After Shiro is taken captive by the Galran Empire, he becomes the subject of an experiment that gives him a strange, talking arm-- and the key to the most powerful machine in the world: The Black Lion.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I am endlessly fascinated by the right hand symbolism between Shiro and Keith throughout the VLD series, so I started to wonder: what if Keith was literally Shiro's right arm? Banging on keyboard ensued. Let's see where this goes.

Shiro had just graduated when news of King Alfor’s death reached Terra.

His fresh, starchy officer jacket had not been through a single wash before his class was called into the Garrison’s auditorium, where Admiral Sanda addressed circulating rumors of fighting breaking out along the Galran and Altean border far to the north. Terra and her government remained steadfast in its neutrality, she assured, but that the Garrison would be amping up its recruitment efforts.

“You will each be assigned districts, and you will be expected to partner with the universities there to find and foster talent. As recent graduates, we feel you are the best suited to describe to students what the Garrison has to offer, and the demands of this life.”

“In addition, applications are now being considered for the survey mission in Kerberos sector. In light of the circumstances, the timetable has been moved up. If you win the assignment, you will be exempted from your recruitment directive for its duration.”

Kerberos. The vast stretch of inhospitable badlands buffering Terra from the Galran Empire to the north. Its sun-beaten dust bowls and deep canyons rarely saw a drop of rain over an entire deca-phoeb. Though lifeless and hostile on the surface, its what was hypothesized to be underneath that drew Terra’s eye. No Garrison-sponsored team had ever ventured this far, for so long, and so close to the Galran border.

Shiro doesn't have much opportunity to contemplate the historic footnote he might one day occupy. Right now, he needs to hold the core sample drill steady. Even in his strong grip, the machine vibrates against the considerable resistance of the bedrock.

"Just a couple more meters, Shiro. You're doing great."

Dr. Holt watches the display of his ground-penetrating radar, brimming with so much enthusiasm. His son, Matt, seems to share in it, though his slumped shoulders and bleary eyes belie the weary toll the long drive across the badlands has taken. With gentle touches, he manages the drill speed at the machine's control panel.

"Once we crack through this stratum, can we break for lunch?" Matt asks.

Dr. Holt hesitates, his lip twitching. But then he replies, "Sure. We should give Shiro a break, too."

"It's alright, Dr. Holt," Shiro says. His arms began to ache halfway through the drill, but he wasn't about to complain.

After fifteen dobashes and about another meter down, Dr. Holt calls for a stop. From their trailer, Matt fetches each of them unpack rations of hardtack, dried meat, and pickles. They picnic on a flat patch of ground where Shiro constructs a serviceable sandwich, though keeping the blowing dust out proves a challenge.

“Just mix it all into the bag and eat it with a fork,” Matt says, waving a wad of said mixture, speared on the tines of his fork.

Shiro makes a face. “I think I’ll make do.”

“It all ends up the same way in your stomach, right?”

“Don’t put Shiro off of his lunch now, Matt,” Dr. Holt cuts in. “We need him in top shape.”

“I’m just the driver,” Shiro says, smiling as he takes a bite from his sandwich.

Dr. Holt laughs. “‘Just’ the driver, huh? You’re also our navigator, lookout, and expert drill-holder. I’d say that makes you just as critical to success as Matt or myself.”

Shiro smiles as he takes a heavy bite of his sandwich, chewing and swallowing quickly to keep it from lingering on his tastebuds. “You flatter me, doc. You know, I never thanked you properly for asking me on this assignment.”

“Matt said you were the best, and so I asked for the best. And after looking over your record? Sanda’s case was as offensive as it was less-than-compelling. I was more than happy to advocate for you.”

“Nonetheless, I’m grateful.”

“We have to give our best if we want to safeguard Terra’s peace now that the Empire - heck, the whole world - is as tense as a drawn bowstring these days. News of Alfor’s death certainly did kick a hornet’s nest.”

“More like smashed it right open. What if we don’t find any crystals? Or scultrite, for that matter?” Matt asks after swallowing a bite off of his fork. “Or what if we do, and the Galra or Altea just decide to invade and take it?”

“Despite their technology, neither the Galra nor Altea want to overextend themselves,” Shiro says. “Besides, taking the raw material would mean having to dig it up and refine it themselves. It’s easier and more cost-efficient to negotiate for it.”

Dr. Holt nods. “Precisely. While Alfor’s death upset some balance, I’m certain our neutrality will not be in any real danger of being violated.”

“Then why are we even out here, sleeping in lumpy cots and eating this awful food?” Matt asks.

“Well, it’s good to have a little insurance.”

“At least until the goods run out."

Dr. Holt puts his last few bites down in his lap, turning fully toward his son. “Which, if our hopes are verified with this survey, will give us at least another ten, perhaps twenty deca-phoebs. By that time, there will finally be a victor, and the fighting will cease.”

“And that victor turns its attention toward us,” Matt replies.

Dr. Holt scoffs. “You’re always so cynical, Matt. You should take a page from Shiro. He never seems short of optimism.”

Shiro keeps down a dismissive huff. How little he knew. He throws him a smile, but absentmindedly scratches at the band around his wrist. In truth, he agreed with Matt-- these theoretical resources were a bandaid. Even if Galra or Altea won their war, it is unlikely that their war machine would simply dismantle and disappear. No, they would most likely turn it on a new target. These long stretches of desert at least gave Terra some defense from wholesale invasion.

But Shiro didn’t go through the Garrison training to be a strategist. That was for people who lived long enough to see it all.

He looks over his last bite pinched between his fingers. Suddenly, his lungs tighten, and he gasps in a fight for breath. He doubles over, the last bit of sandwich tumbling from his fingers as he gropes for the stimulator band around his wrist.

“Shiro!” he hears distantly. “Shiro, are you okay? Get him some water, Matt. Water!”

A coughing fit seizes him when the stimulator jolts his diaphragm and his lungs inflate. Either Dr. Holt or Matt - he’s not sure which - thrusts a canteen into his hand. As soon as he catches his breath, Shiro takes a long pull, the cool water soothing his inflamed throat. “Thanks,” he croaks. “Just got a little food caught in my throat. I’m alright.”

Dr. Holt eyes him incredulously, taking back the canteen and securing the lid. “I want you to take five minutes. Then we can resume our work, if you’re up to it.”

Shiro looks away, wiping his lip with the back of his hand. “Yeah. Of course I am.” He doesn’t feel any better when Dr. Holt insists he and Matt clean up without him.

They resume drilling. The drill bit strains against the second layer of rock, and they have to pause every ten dobashes to let the machine cool down. Shiro wipes his brow with the back of his hand, smearing dust and sweat. At least the breaks give his arms a chance to rest, and to prevent any further delay to their pace.

As the daylight begins to wane, however, Dr. Holt looks up sharply from his monitor. “Do you hear that?”

Shiro freezes, his focus on listening out for anything besides the incessant gusts of wind and the whir of the drill machine. Matt, too, perks up from the machine controls.

“No,” Shiro says after a long, quiet moment.

Dr. Holt shakes his head. “Huh. Just my imagination then.”

In that second, however, Shiro does hear it. The booming _whap whap_ of helicopter blades cutting through the air, and growing louder with each passing second.

“What could that be?” Dr. Holt says, looking up to the sky.

The high cliff face of the canyon blocks any useful view, with echoes further obscuring the direction of the incoming bogey. 

“I want both of you in the trailer,” Shiro says. “Now.”

The helicopter, huge with twin rotors, swoops directly overhead. Its purple hull and violet markings make it clear to what nation it hails from.

Over the roar, Dr. Holt yells, “That’s Diba-tech! What is a Galran patrol like that doing across our border?”

“I don’t know, but I need to keep you and Matt safe. Go to the trailer. I’m going to hitch it and get the truck started,” Shiro answers, stepping past him.

Shiro stops short when Dr. Holt yells, “No! We can’t stop now. We can’t pack up and leave now, not just because of one Galran heli! Maybe it just got lost is all!”

“Dad, I’m with Shiro on this,” Matt says, shutting off the drill. “Galra don’t just ‘get lost’. We should at least take the trailer and hide out somewhere for a while.”

“No! I will continue this myself if I have to. I’m not afraid of the Empire!”

Just as Dr. Holt finishes speaking, however, a shadow descends over them, as black as nightfall. Shiro’s breath catches when as looks up. An enormous Galran flying carrier hovers directly overhead, every inch riddled with long barreled guns and cannons. Dust devils spawn in its wake as it descends to where Shiro can make out the _DIBA-TECH_ markings emblazoned across its belly.

Dr. Holt’s face falls, and the monitoring tablet drops from his hand. “Oh, _quiznak_.”

* * *

 

He had known the risks. The inhospitable landscape of the badlands was obvious, but the warnings of mining so close to the Galran border had been repeated to him ad nauseum at the Garrison.

“We may not be in open war, but the Galra as friendly as a cobra,” Sanda had said. “They might not actively seek to strike us, but get too close…You hear me? You get even a whiff of trouble, and you get them out of there, you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Especially with your condition. Dr. Holt may have insisted on you, but that still doesn’t mean I won’t carry the guilt if I knowingly sent a sick man to his death out in the middle of nowhere.”

Shiro had schooled a frown. “I understand, sir.”

Yet nothing, absolutely nothing, reminds him of his mortality like being a prisoner of the Galra Empire.

He remembers his captors separating him from the Holts, and the blow to the head to keep him subdued. Visions of iron chains, tattered rags, and bleak, foul holding cells assail him.  They quickly become a blur of cheering crowds, bone-crushing exhaustion, and blood. So much blood. He couldn’t get away from the smell.

His suffering, however, as real as it seemed, fades away like a passing nightmare. Perhaps that’s all it was? Just a horrible, awful dream.

He jerks awake. His eyes pop open, coming into focus on a gray, vaulted ceiling. The unfamiliar architecture told him it didn’t belong to his quarters at the Garrison, a fact that sunk into his belly like a stone. This was no dream.

Where was he?  How much time had passed? Vargas? Quintents? Deca-phoebes?  Closing his eyes, he fights back his growing panic and quiets his mind.

Situation assessment: first, his head hurts like the dickens. Second, his back complains from lying flat on something, and by the look of the strange equipment and suspension chambers surrounding him, he’s in some sort of laboratory. An examination bed, then. He tries to sit up, but meets resistance against straps that keep him pinned down.

He tries just his arms next. His left meets resistance. Pulling again, he realizes his left arm is restrained as well.

His right, however. There is no right.

Third: his arm is missing. Just, gone.

“Wha-!” he cries in shock, but it comes out as a scratchy rumble from the back of his dehydrated throat. Sweat beads across his brow when he lifts his head, seeing the stump capped off with some cybernetics.

They maimed him. The Galra. They _mangled_ him, but why? And the Holts! What cruel butchery did the Galra subject them to?

The laboratory door hisses open, and Shiro hears a bevy of footfalls. Galra, clad in purple lab coats and breathing masks, crowd in around the exam table. While most have the telltale gold eyes and batlike ears of a typical Galra, one appears almost Terran, with long white hair flowing over her shoulders. Her golden eyes, purplish skin tone, and withered scowl, however, evidence her loyalties.

Shiro assumes she is the one in charge. She taps in an input on the cybernetic cap of of his arm, and it pulses to life. “Wait!” he cries out. “What if Terra discovers we’re missing? Finds out what you’ve done to us? You can kiss our neutrality goodbye!”

“Let us begin,” she says, ignoring him completely.

“Yes, Haggar.”

Shiro says, “Hey, let me go. Abducting us, experimenting on us? You just committed an act of open aggression against Terra. We won’t stand for this. The Garrison will impose an embargo, and it’ll hurt.”

The one they called Haggar shoots him an annoyed glance. She nods to one of the attendants.

“Wait, stop! Please! Ugh-!” A rubbery gag shoves against Shiro’s mouth. He thrashes, shouting around the disgusting piece as they force it past his teeth. It absolutely stinks of old, foul breath, and tastes even worse.

He continues to shout even as they tie a strap around his lips to keep him from spitting the gag out. They’re not putting him under. They’re not even going to knock him out? He struggles to breathe through his nose, his panic rising as the attendants hold him down while Haggar turns to the rack with the diabolic mechanical arm.

His pulse thunders in his ears when she picks it up and brings it over, setting the end of its upper arm flush with the cybernetic stump of his own.

He could die. This was it. This might just be his last moments alive. He shuts his eyes tight when he feels vibrations of electronic locks snapping the limb into place. Trenches in the arm's plating pulse with blood red light. Points like nails dig into his skin, erupting all across the end of his stump.

Suddenly, a flash of red blooms across his vision. He looks over to his right shoulder when a strange tingle itches in his brain, and an uncomfortable resonance creeps up his spine. He shivers when an alien presence prods like fingernails at the base of his skull.

Stop! Stop, he tells it, but to no avail.

“Status,” he hears.

“Pulse, cortisol levels are high, but he’s stable.”

“That’s how they all are at first,” Haggar says, clicking her tongue.

_Integrating..._

He hears the word, though unspoken. It is more of an independent thought pushing itself into his mind. Many, many independent thoughts push themselves in as the trickle becomes a flood, filling his skull until he fears his brain will burst from his ears. The only thing he can do is cry out around the gag.  He sputters and coughs on his next inhale.  Mercifully, he feels as if his soul detaches from its moors, and the world goes dark.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ** = denotes Red speaking. Please let me know if this is confusing.

The lab, the Garrison, home. When did it all start to feel so distant? So...small?

He stands, but there is no floor beneath his feet. He breathes, but his lungs take in no air. He looks upon the starry expanse before him, peaceful, tranquil, painless. A stark departure from the agony he endured on a Galran exam table.

Did the pain finally make him go mad? Did it make him create this place his psyche where he could have refuge?

A shape and movement appears at the vanishing point dead ahead, where light and void converge. He waits, and he waits for it to saunter closer. It comes into focus as a great four-legged beast, as thick as a tank and as tall as any of the Garrison’s air traffic control towers. Feline, but not one of flesh and blood. Instead, black and white plating shifts with each measured step. A pair of red studs rise from its back, and a pair of golden, catlike ears perch on its head as though a crown.

It’s an enormous robotic lion, unlike any machine he had ever seen nor heard about. It stops to sit on its haunches before him, the long cord of its tail sweeping behind it. He feels its penetrating gaze upon him as he tilts his chin up.

His chest tightens. He cannot explain the wonder - joy? - that suddenly overcomes him.

"Who are you?"

Its machine jaws snap open, and the beast lunges for him with a roar. It transforms into a golden bolt of light, and its massive form shrinks down into a single point, lancing him through the forehead with all the gentleness of a sledgehammer.

The starry expanse vanishes and rudely deposits him back into himself, as if dropped from a great height. He jolts awake with a yell, hissing when a pounding headache settles in once the shock wears off.

*You're awake? I’m impressed.*

Shiro jerks at the voice, crisp and synthetic. “Who’s there?” He thrashes, looking about but seeing only cold steel walls. He stops his motions when his eyes fall upon the strange mechanical arm now attached to his shoulder.

He flinches from it with a gasp. It looks every bit like Diba-tech, with its gray and jagged plating fitting together like demon scales, and red tracks like veins exposed between the plates’ seams. He stares in awe as he gives the fingers a test flex. It moves as ably as his own flesh would, and he can feel the cool temperature of its metal plating when he pinches his fingers together.

He next moves the elbow. The joint swings freely, and it’s then he realizes he is no longer strapped to a table. Instead, there's a lumpy cot underneath him. He sits up slowly, swinging his legs around over the edge. He sways with a touch of light-headedness, listening intently to his surroundings.  When he detects no further sound or motion, he shakes off his lingering dizziness, supposing he just hallucinated the strange voice.  He assesses the surroundings and, based on the drab walls and matchbox size of his surroundings, he figures himself to be in a prison cell. Or an observation room.

*Seems you survived. Count yourself lucky. Most don’t even wake up.*

Shiro jumps. “Who’s there?” he repeats.

*Down here, dummy.*

Shiro gives full attention to his new arm. He turns it over, whispering, he asks, "Are you the arm? Are you the one speaking to me?"

*An arm? I'm _not_ an arm!*

"Well, then, what are you?"

* _What_ I am is trapped here, like yourself, dummy.*

“How can you be trapped?”

“Because I don’t belong here. No matter how many poor bastards like you she brings in, that witch still hasn’t learned. I belong to no one, not even Zarkon.”

Zarkon. The Emperor and CEO of Diba-tech, the sole reason for the Galra Empire’s incredible technological strength. Shiro’s not even sure about what he looks like.

He winces, his headache screaming now. “Can you tell me where I am?”

“Isn’t it obvious? You’re a member of Diba-tech’s little petshop of horrors.”

“Diba-tech.  Right,” Shiro says, swallowing a lump in his throat. “ _Quiznak._ ”

*Yeah.*

“They took my arm off, just like that. Like some kind of lab animal.”

*That’s all anyone is here.*

Shiro slumps back against the wall. “How did I get so screwed?” He’s not sure if he means it rhetorically, but the silence that draws out proves that even his alien arm knows there is no good answer.

*So, you’re obviously not Galran. Your brain structure is different. Altean?”

Shiro huffs. “No. I’m Terran.”

*Terran? Huh. Poor bastard. You’re a long way from home. Never interfaced with a brain of your kind before. Didn’t peg your kind to be so resilient. I’ve interfaced with some nasty customers, but yours is the first brain that hasn’t melted beyond saving from the integration.”

A scratch and pressure in his lungs interrupts Shiro before he can ask what he means. The coughing fit sends him pitching forward as it wracks him. He probes for the bracelet around his human wrist, only to find it missing.

“Quiznak,” he whispers once the coughing subsides and he can take in a lungful of air.

*I take the ‘resilient’ part back. She gave me to a sick man? Something doesn’t add up here.*

Shiro swallows, his throat raw with dehydration. “I’m fine, by the way. Thanks for the concern.”

“So what are you? A thief? Smuggler? Spy?”

Shiro scowls. “What? No.”

“Or perhaps a gladiator who wants an edge in his next arena match? The other druids adore this one maniac. A total butcher. The Champion, they call him. He’d probably cut through a squishy Terran like you to ribbons.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

*Well, there must be some reason the witch took an interest in you enough to have her test on you one of her prized curiosities. Me, that is.*

Shiro examines the arm more closely. Then, it dawns. “You’re an AI, aren’t you?”

“A what?”

“An AI. Artificial Intelligence.”

“I consider myself just ‘intelligence’, thank you. By the way, you don’t have to speak to me out loud.”

Confused for a moment, Shiro tries thinking his next reply: ‘I can talk to you like this?’

*Now you’re getting it.*

With open wonder, Shiro’s thoughts rush on. ‘I’ve heard of the Alteans’ employing AI in their technology, but you’re the first Galran one I’ve ever heard of. Quiznak, do the Alteans even know?’

“Who cares.”

‘What do you mean, ‘who cares’?’

*Listen, you seem like a decent fellow. Better at holding a conversation than anyone they’ve ever dragged into this lab. But you’re her test subject. We are her test subjects. Once she discovers you survived integration with me, and are still awake and alert, she will want to take you apart and dissect you to figure out why. For one reason or another, I’m her pet project. And when you’re dead, I’ll still be back to being stuck on a rack, waiting for the next fresh meat to come through. So the outside world is not going to matter one bit.”

Shiro stands abruptly and paces his cell as he listens, looking about for any openings or weak points in the plated walls. He pushes against the heavy steel door, and digs his fingers, flesh and metal, into the sliding plate that covers the peephole. He answers aloud, “No! I have to get out!” His heart leaps when he thinks, ‘I have to find the Holts! I have to get them back to Terra. They trusted me. They-,’

*Whoever they are, if they aren’t test subjects themselves, then they’re probably already casualties to the meat grinder of the arena.*

‘I don’t believe that! I have to get out of here! If there is any chance of getting them out alive, I’m going to try whether you like it or not’

*It’s not about what I like. You and what army? Whether you die by security drone or on an operating table, you have no chance under her watch.*

The seams of the door aren’t about to budge. Shiro slumps and thinks back, ‘I might not have a chance on my own.’

*See? I’m right.*

He glances over to the arm again. ‘So you’ll have to help me.’

*What?*

‘You say you’re a prisoner, too, right? So help me, and I’ll help you.’

*You might regret that. I’m serious when I say I’ve never interfaced with a Terran brain before. Anything beyond basic movement and you’ll could have a seizure. You could turn into a vegetable if you don’t simply drop dead.*

‘And if I don’t?’

The voice remains silent for a moment. *Alright. Let’s say you do survive, not only with your faculties intact, but then by some miracle we manage to escape. I don’t want to end up trading a Galran lab for a Terran one.*

‘I’ll make sure that never happens, I swear it.’

*I can’t say that fills me with confidence. We’re getting way ahead of ourselves here.*

‘Well, we’re going to be stuck together, then you’ll just have to trust me.’

*Do you even have a plan? Haggar and her druids are not to be taken lightly.*

‘Haggar. White hair, creepy face?’

*That’s the one.*

‘Yeah, we’ve met. Would prefer to avoid a second encounter. Just let me think…they’ll have to feed me eventually, right? Maybe I can stage an ambush, then we’ll make a break for it.’

*I have a better idea. We might as well test whether we’ll even be able to make it out of this cell.*

‘I’m listening.’

*Place the palm of your hand against the weakest part of the door.*

Shiro glances down to his alien-looking palm, and heaves a great sigh. ‘I trust you, okay?’ he thinks, doing as the voice says and placing it against the closed peephole.

*Right. Not like you have much of a choice.*

The metal feels cool against his own metallic palm, a sensation he might never get used to. Then, a surge of energy thrums through the tangle of veins running through his arm. It converges into his hand until it glows violet with energy. The odd heat of it, like something akin to freezer burn, soon overrides every other sensation. It travels up his arm, through his shoulder, up until his head runs hot with it. Not his head, but his actual brain.

He endures the uncomfortable sensation, even as a red hue paints his vision. He watches in astonishment when the dense metal under his palm beings to singe, then melt. He slides the palm over the metal until he carves out a hole large enough for him to slip through. When he withdraws his hand, the purple energy fades, and the red tint over his vision lifts.

‘Wow!’ he thinks.

*Wow, yourself. You survived that little trick, too. I’m liking our odds more and more.*

Shiro grins. ‘See? Things are looking up all the time,’ he thinks as he threads himself through the hole and out into the hallway. He holds himself flush against the wall, listening out for any patrols.

*You're still conscious and didn't lose any of your senses. Hopefully I didn't shift around too many memories squeezing between your synapses.*

Shiro snorts, crouching down to lower his profile. 'For your sake, I better not have forgotten my combat training. Or how to drive.'

*Good thing I can drive just about anything. I have flight programming as well.*

‘I’m starting to see why Diba-tech finds you valuable. So, which way?’

*You wanted to locate your friends, right?*

Shiro blinks. ‘Right. I do.’

*Find me an access node. Each exam room should have one. I can link to it and search the facility for Terran biosigns.*

Shiro spots markings on the opposite wall-- lines that point in the direction to his right. It’s as good of a guess as any, so he heads that way, staying out of sight behind archways as he proceeds. ‘Why are you offering? I thought you just wanted to get out of here?’

*Help you, help me. Right?*

Shiro smiles. ‘Right. Thanks. By the way, what else can I call you besides 'intelligence'?'

*Call me...?*

'You know, like a name.'

*Like how they call that one fighter ‘Champion’?*

Shiro grimaces. 'Yeah, but don't call me that, okay? Call me Shiro.'

*Shiro...*

‘How about ‘Red’?’

*Red?*

‘Yeah. It’s the color I saw when you activated my - our - hand. Unless you have a better suggestion?’

*Red,* it says, as though trying it out. *Sure.  If you say so, Shiro. *


	3. Chapter 3

Shiro thought he would hate the recruitment circuit. The number of universities he checked off only served to remind him that his application for Kerberos had been stewing for weeks.  Hurry up and wait.  Hurry up and wait.

In the meantime, the general enthusiasm of the bright-eyed and bushy-tailed students he met helped bolster his own spirits for a time. But giving the same speech, the same simulator demo over and over just seemed so mundane compared to the dream of putting his training to use in a real mission.

It seemed that way, until he met Keith Kogane.

A discipline case, the dean explained.

“He could skip basic with these simulator scores,” Shiro countered.

That was before he discovered his car missing from where he had parked it in the _VISITOR_ section.

“That’s a funny way to say ‘hello,’” he told said ‘discipline case’, whose shaggy hair and petulant expression offered no sign of remorse. “I’m Shiro. You must be Keith, right?”

Keith rolled his eyes. And just like that, Shiro figured he could stand to wait a little longer on the Kerberos decision.

He handed Keith his contact card. “Listen, I think you should really give the Garrison a shot. And if you ever need a ride, you can just ask me next time, alright? My contact info is all here.”

“Why are you being nice?” 

“Why did you take my car?”

Keith only shrugged, flipping back his unruly bangs.

“We could all use a hand.” _And because you have my full attention_ , Shiro left off.

The young man snatched the card from his fingers and turned on his heel without so much as a goodbye. He slipped in between the flow of students heading to class. Shiro stood like a boulder, watching his back until he disappeared in the current.

The next morning, his phone rang.

* * *

 

Keith held a gleam of greatness, a pull of wonder Shiro could not explain well enough for his liking in his recommendation to Commander Iverson. What would shine through under the rough if Garrison life could polish him? It was the corniest thing he ever committed to a written document, but Iverson seemed to buy it.

It wasn’t long after that Shiro received the call he expected, though hoped the might never get.

"Iverson wants to see you," came the message to his personal comm. “An incident involving Kogane.”

The polish wouldn’t happen overnight, he supposed.

He made his way toward the halls of classrooms, and past the flight simulation and instruction facilities. When he arrived at the door of the detention office, he pressed his finger to the locking panel. The door swished open, where the gruff face of Iverson greeted him.

"Ah, Shirogane. This way."

"What happened?" he asked, following Iverson inside.

He spotted him then. Keith, surly and cross, planted on the waiting room couch. He glanced up to Shiro, but not for long as he hid himself behind his long bangs.

"Decided to throw a punch at one of our other cadets." Iverson nodded to a sable-haired individual seated as far as possible on the other end of the couch, his cheek buried in his palm. Griffin, Shiro thought.

Shiro sighed, continuing to follow Iverson into his office just beyond the waiting area. When the door shut behind him, Shiro asked, "What did the other cadet say? Griffin, was it?"

"He has been corrected for his role in the incident."

"What did he say?"

Iverson sighed. "An insensitive remark concerning his parents.”

"Sir!"

"I know. But no matter what, your boy over there needs to learn some self-discipline if he's going to have a prayer at making officer."

Shiro nodded, even though he wanted to run out, grab this Griffin fellow by the collar and give him a piece of his mind about self-discipline.

But Keith was his. His wager, his responsibility.

"I understand. What do you need me to do?"

"Look, I know he ain't got no one else, and you're sweet on him, stars know why. He listens to nobody but you. Just talk some sense into him, would you? We can’t have anymore incidents like this."

"Yes, sir." Shiro fought down a rush of indignation. Sweet on him? Since when was being concerned the same as being 'sweet'?

Outside Iverson’s office, he pivoted to his left toward where Keith sits, the latter stonefaced as though awaiting the executioner's axe.

"So you screwed up,” Shiro said to him, ignoring Griffin’s nosy glance over to them.

Keith huffed in reply.

Shiro frowned. This was getting a little tiresome.

"Get up. Let's walk."

Keith says nothing but obeyed, standing with a churlish sigh. He followed Shiro out into the hallway, where they fell into a stroll side-by-side.

"I'm not mad," Shiro offered.

"Just disappointed," Keith surmised.

"A little. But to be honest, I'm glad you stood up for yourself. Just wasn't in the way I would have advised you."

Keith took a few more steps in silence. "Am I going to be kicked out?"

"Not if I can help it."

"Won't that look bad for you? Getting bogged down by a 'discipline case'?"

"You let me worry about that."

Keith stopped short at that, turning to ask: "Why are you sticking your neck out? You don't even know me."

Shiro stopped as well, turning to face him fully. He answers, "You're right. I don't. Not really. But I'm not giving up on you. More importantly, you can't give up on yourself. I vouched for you for a reason."

"And that was?"

Shiro hesitates. Not for the first time, he struggled to articulate the reason he found such a fascination with the young man before him. The reason his raw potential seemed to shine more brightly among the throngs of cadets that have passed through these halls. The reason that Shiro's long, cruel march towards the end of his days no longer seems so bitter anymore.

He knew he hesitated too long when Keith's expression shifts from annoyed to wounded. "See? You don't even know."

"Because you could change the world," Shiro blurted.

They both reeled back from one another at his statement.

"I mean," Shiro started, collecting himself. "Because I know what it's like."

"You? You know what it's like? How could you, the great Takashi Shirogane, know what it's like?" Keith lashed back.

"To have other people make up their mind about you before you even have a chance? I know exactly what that's like. I know how it feels to be hamstrung before the starting gun even sounds." Keith stares at him, struck dumb by the no small amount of acerbity Shiro dishes back to him. Shiro points to the detention office door. "But if you let people like him, people who truly don't know shit trip you up, then you'll always fall behind. You'll never beat them to the finish line. You'll only prove them right about you."

Keith's throat bobbed as he absorbed his words, his gaze drifting to the office door. "Okay."

"Okay?"

"I won't do it again. And I'm sorry they had to call you."

Shiro sighed, placing his right hand on Keith's shoulder. "Come on. Let's get you back to quarters."

As they neared the dorms, Shiro told him, "We all make mistakes."

"Right. Even you, huh?"

"Even me. That's why it's so important to have someone to watch your back. So that's what I'm going to do for you, Keith, for as long as I can."

"Shiro?"

Shiro had already turned away. "I think that’s enough out of me. Goodnight."

Iverson thanked him later when Griffin earned himself kitchen duty in the following quintents.

“I only had to discipline one cadet instead of two.”

“Whatever I said to Kogane must have been the right thing.”

A knowing smirk crossed Iverson’s lip. “Or maybe it just came from the right person.”


	4. Chapter 4

Shiro darts from a corner, and pressed himself flush against the wall. He shivers, the rags of his shirt providing little buffer between him and the freezing metal. He can only guess his next move, turning left at the next split in the corridor. He hasn’t run across a single patrol or security camera, a fact he tries not to find troubling.

Eventually, he comes to a double door with glass windows. He ducks to the side and peers through.

‘It’s a lab, but I’m not sure how to open these doors.’

*They probably respond only to Galran bio-signatures. There should be a manual override. Place me against it.*

Shiro steps back and looks about. He spots a glassy panel off to the side of the door. He goes to it, touching Red to it as instructed. The violet energy surges, his palm glows, and his vision changes. However, the hot throb in his skull feels a bit milder this time.

The doors unlatch and slide apart. Shiro hides himself against the jamb and peers inside. ‘Deserted. I don’t like this. Isn’t there supposed to be important research going on here?’

*Maybe they don’t expect jailbreaks to be a regular occurence.*

‘Could be,’ Shiro admits, heading inside the lab. ‘You know what one of these access nodes looks like?’

*Not sure. Like a computer?*

Shiro huffs.

*Come on. It’s not like arms have eyes. I have to create a virtual model based on radio waves and sound.*

‘So you admit that you’re an arm?’ Shiro teases as he glances around for anything that looks like an access node.

*Just when I was starting to tolerate you.*

‘That’s a shame. I’d say you’re starting to grow on me.’

*Great. I meet my best chance of escape, but I have to suffer his terrible sense of humor. How did I get so lucky?*

‘Easy. Just trying to lighten the mood. Here, I think I found it.’

Shiro approaches a console where a tangle of wires and cables converge, appearing more like a cybernetic tree stump than any computer he was familiar with. He places Red on its glassy monitor, and his hand activates.

*Accessing...*

Shiro taps his foot, antsy when half a minute passes by in utter silence as Red works. He takes a calming breath, recalling his mantra. ‘Patience yields focus, patience yields focus, patience yields-’

*That’s distracting,* Red cuts in.

‘You’re taking a while.’

*And I’m trying to be thorough. I began scanning the sector we’re in, with the holding cells. But even when I expand the search, I’m not detecting any other Terrans in this facility.*

‘That can’t be.’

*I don’t think they’re here, Shiro.*

Quiznak. ‘Then how are we supposed to find them?’

*We can figure that out once we solve our next most pressing issue: getting out of here.*

He has to admit to the solid logic. ‘Roger that. Any idea which way?’

*I downloaded the floorplans of the facility while I was scanning. I can talk you through to getting to the garages.*

Shiro retracts his hand from the console. ‘Red, you continue to impress, even if you are a bit smart-mouthed.’

*Funny choice of word seeing as how I am ‘just’ an arm to you.*

‘Oh, and how quickly I am learning the error of my ways. You know, for someone presumably programmed by the Galra, you sure do remind me of someone.’

*Yeah? Who might that be?*

Shiro huffs, smiling. The one shaggy-haired boy with a perpetual frown and a sour look that could kill.

*Shiro?*

'A promising cadet at the Garrison. Like you, he doesn’t really mince words, and most people think he’s more trouble than he’s worth.”

*Gee, thanks.*

'But he’s incredibly talented if you just look. He might be unstoppable with good training and if, no, when he learns how to control his impulses. But he needs guidance.'

*Okay-*

'He's one of the reasons I have to get out of here. He needs someone to watch his back. Who knows what kind of trouble he's got himself into without me? Just how long have I been gone?'

*Relax, Shiro.*

He didn't even notice the sudden tightness in his chest before Red's words bring him back to the present. It was the first time he thought about that special cadet since he woke up.

'Right. Sorry. I know he can take care of himself, so I won't worry too much. Doesn't help with our immediate concerns, does it?' He takes in a calming breath, lets it flow out through his muscles, and refocuses his thoughts.

Suddenly, the lights dim. A siren peals, and the lab fills with flashing red light.

_ALERT. SUBJECT 117-9875 HAS ESCAPED. UNAUTHORIZED ACTIVITY DETECTED IN SECTOR FOUR. ALL HANDS INITIATE RECOVERY PROCEDURE DELTA._

“What did you do?” Shiro says, out loud.

*It wasn’t me!*

_BE ADVISED, SUBJECT IS HIGHLY DANGEROUS. DO NOT ENGAGE ALONE. REPEAT…_

Shiro steps back blindly, and regrets doing so when his leg bumps against a barrel. He knocks it over with a loud clatter.

‘Damn it!’

*Ugh! Really?*

His ears perk when he detects the hurried clanking of footfalls approaching outside of the door. He looks about. Examination tables, cabinets, and a row of three large holding tanks. The tanks have barely enough of a gap between them.

‘I’m sorry, okay? Have to hide!'

Shiro leaps over an exam table and dives between two of the holding tanks, ensuring he doesn't scrape his new limb across the glass. A pair of guards bursts into the lab not a moment later, rifles aimed as they sweep the area.

"I know I heard something!”

“Check the barrels. I’ll look over here.”

Shiro sucks in a breath and holds it. Suddenly, a suckered tentacle darts from the murky suspension and slaps against the glass barrier in front of Shiro's face. The barest of gasps slips from his lips.

"Huh?" the guard says.

*What is wrong with you?* Red admonishes.

'Shut up!' Shiro thinks back, hard.

*How many are there? With me, you could have a shot at taking them out.*

‘No. This room is a dead end. If they call in more guards, we’ll be trapped. Sometimes the best move in a bad situation is to wait. Patience yields-’

*Focus. Right. Got it.*

The muzzle of the rifle points between the dark gap of the tanks. Shiro prays the darkness is enough to hide him. The tentacle fidgets, then slaps against the side where the guard stands. The guard startles, but then lowers his weapon, sighing. He informs the other, "Just one of the druids' freaky experiments. No sign of 'im?"

"None over here."

"Damn. Let's move on, then."

The door swishes shut and the footfalls quiet. Shiro waits at least five seconds after the guards leave the lab to let out a long exhale. He scoots out from between the tubes, thinking, 'Too close.'

*I’ll say. You need to pull it together and be more careful if we’re gonna make it out.*

Shiro grimaces, ‘Think I don’t realize that? Listen, I just woke up from a traumatic surgery, only to learn that an alien intelligence - that’s you - is now inhabiting my brain. Excuse me if I’m still a little out of sorts. Now, which way to a hangar? You said you can drive or fly anything, right?’

Red doesn’t respond right away, seeming almost chastised. *Right. I’ll call out directions to you,* he says eventually. *Let’s just get moving already.*

Shiro sprints from the lab, sliding flush against the walls of the corridor. It's not long before the corridor splits into a fork. A large, looming rune alights the intersection. 'Which way?’

*Left. Look, I’m sorry. For snapping.*

Shiro smiles, darting for the left corridor. ‘It’s okay. I’m sorry for not being more careful. We’re both under a lot of stress.’ He doesn’t add that accepting the apology of a complex being living inside his right arm was just one more thing among many he has struggled to process within the past varga. Instead he settles on, ‘Honestly I still can’t believe how sophisticated you are.’

The corridor curves, then splits again into three pathways. Red says, *Take the right. You just said you were sorry, and now you’re making fun of me?*

Shiro banks right. ‘Making fun? No, I don’t mean it in a backhanded way, but in that I understand now why you insisted on just the ‘intelligence’ part.’

*Then, thanks, I guess. Never thought I would meet someone who gets me.*

Shiro freezes in his tracks. ‘Hold.’ His ears catch the hum of a patrol drone not far off. He rolls against the wall, pressing himself flush against the flared archway that juts out. The hum grows louder, and Shiro stops breathing when it passes between the archway. The drone hovers by without so much as a lurch, and doesn't seem to detect him. It continues on its way, turning left and out of his sight.

He bolts, feet and thoughts silent as Red continues to call out directions for him. After half a dozen twists, turns, and close calls, Shiro slips into a hangars bay. Two rows, each with about a dozen fighter planes extend down the enormous structure

‘Nice. State-of-the-art Diba-Tech. You can help me fly this thing, right? We can get to the Terran border in a flash with one of these,’ Shiro thinks, smiling up at one such fighter.

*Jump into any one of them. I can hotwire one for you.*

Shiro approaches it, and hoists himself into its cockpit. ‘Hotwire, huh? Never expected an alien intelligence that’s been cooped up for so long to know the term.'

*Must be something I picked up from your brain.*

'Must be, but don't think you have permission to go rummaging around.'

*Why not? Afraid I'll find something embarrassing to hold over you?*

Shiro chuckles. 'It really is uncanny. Just who programmed you to be so...this way?'

*I...*

"Halt there!" a voice barks.

Shiro tenses, his blood freezing. 'Oh, quiznak...'

* * *

 

Shiro had just finished up his notes on his latest recruitment visit when an incoming call light flashed on his comm.  His heart leaped.  He kept his voice steady enough to acknowledge the summon to Admiral Sanda's office, but threw his tablet into his satchel and bolted.

He could hardly stop himself from breaking into a sprint on his way there. His brisk pace through the halls of the command wing nonetheless earned him a few upturned eyebrows. He didn't care.

He greeted reception with what he hoped was a casual nod. He brushed down his coat and touched up his lock of hair as he waited.

"The Admiral will see you now," the receptionist said, waving him through.

Admiral Sanda sat reclined behind her desk as he entered, thumbing through some text-heavy document on her tablet. She set it down on the desk and stood when Shiro approached. "Shirogane. Thank you for coming on short notice."

"Admiral," he greeted, saluting.

"At ease, Shiro. I'm afraid we have something sensitive to discuss."

Shiro's face fell at that, along with the hand at his temple. "Sensitive?"

"It's about your application for the Kerberos Initiative. As you are aware, the Garrison will be in charge of transportation and escort for Dr. Holt and his assistant out into the badlands."

"Yes, I am. What about my application?"

Sanda cleared her throat. "Dr. Holt has requested you personally."

"Really?" Shiro said, his eyes alight.

Sanda's flat expression swiftly douses his enthusiasm. She informs him, "I don't think this will come as a shock, but we're deferring you until we can get this sorted out."

His throat constricted. His heart flip-flopped in his chest. A slick, clammy feeling flooded under his collar. His gaze settled on the desk, unable to meet her eyes. "Admiral, this is a complete shock, actually. I know I am the best qualified for this. What is the issue?"

"He has not been fully apprised of your condition."

He snapped to. "Because it's not relevant. I can do the mission," he insisted.

Sanda chewed the inside of her lip. She then said, "A lot is riding on the success of this. Money, time, and Terran lives if this mission proves even half as much resources exist as Dr. Holt is anticipating. With as much surveying and research as this mission demands, you could be out there for a very long time."

"With all due respect, I am aware of the stakes. Tell me, is there something the matter with my qualifications?"

"Of course not. You are exemplary."

"Then why are we having this discussion? Sir."

"Because in truth, I want for you to consider whether this is something you want to do with your time, Shirogane."

Shiro reeled, stunned as if slapped on the cheek. "My time? With all due respect, the only one in charge of what I do with my time is me. I _have_ considered this. I have considered this for so many long, agonizing months. You have no idea how sick I am of hearing about why I should hold myself back!"

"Shirogane, watch yourself," Sanda started, but stopped as her eyes fell shut. "Look, I'm sorry this has been such difficult news to take."

"Can we reach out to Dr. Holt? Right now. I'll tell him what he needs to know so that he can make the call. Please!"

Sanda said, "That won't be necessary. Thank you, Shiro. That will be all."

"But, sir!"

"I will let you know the final decision in a few days. You are dismissed."

Shiro blinked, shaking as he reined in a furious cry.  Disappointment churned in his chest, wanting to burst out like a infected boil. He nearly forgot to salute before he spun on his heel and dashed out.  Those upturned eyebrows scrutinize him once more as he stomped like an ogre through the Garrison halls back to quarters. He didn't care.

He was still fuming when he made back to quarters, beating his fist against the wall when the door swished shut behind him. He regretted it when in the next instant, when he spotted Adam perking up from the breakfast bar.

"Sorry, " Shiro mumbled out as he shambled for the couch, dropping his satchel and slumping into its stiff cushions. He snatched up the red pillow as he sat, pulling it to his chest.

"Bad day?" Adam asked, spinning around on his stool.

"The Kerberos Initiative. Sanda deferred me. She had the nerve to say it shouldn't have been a shock."

A long pause lingered between them.

Adam said, "Maybe it's for the best."

The remark lanced through him, puncturing the swollen boil in his chest. A sudden rage exploded inside Shiro, and it poured out from his lips. "It's for the best? It's for the best that for all their endless backpatting and praise, I don't ever get actually apply what I've spent half my life training for? It's for the best I accomplish absolutely nothing except posing for recruitment brochures? It's for the best that I just wither away and die here?" He crushed the pillow to his chest, staring down at the sterile floor beneath his feet.

"That's not what I said nor what I meant, Shiro."

"If Sanda won't reach out to Dr. Holt, then I will."

"Shiro-,"

"No! I know what you're going to say. I'm tired of this conversation, Adam."

Adam crossed his arms. "So am I."

Shiro snapped to him then, but his grip on the pillow loosened.

Adam continued, "I'm so exhausted, you know? It's like you can't even see that I just want you to be happy and safe. That everyone does, for all you've given to them."

Shiro looked down to the pillow in his lap. "Happy and safe doesn't give my life meaning, Adam."

"No. I suppose that's why it hasn't worked out for us."

Shiro stood up, letting the pillow flop onto the floor. "Adam, I-," he started. "Wait. I'm sorry."

Adam only shook his head, stepping off from the stool. "Don't be sorry. Tell you what. I'll talk to my father while you get a hold of Dr. Holt. Between them, Sanda will have to cave."

"Adam..."

"Go on the mission." Adam stepped behind the couch, his bespectacled gaze piercing him through as deeply as his next words. "Just don't expect me to be here when you get back."

Shiro's heart sunk like a dead star, sucking in his guts as Adam continued past.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I also kinda wanted to write out my take on some of these canon scenes and tie them in to this fic


	5. Chapter 5

The hard bark of the voice shoots a tremor up Shiro's spine. He stands up in the cockpit, turning to face the Galra officer. Wide, batlike ears frame a hard scowl like that of a gargoyle's. Embedded in one of his eyes is a monocle and, - like looking into some funhouse mirror - the officer has his own replacement arm, hulking in comparison to Red. It’s not even physically attached-- instead, an orb of violet energy connects the gigantic forearm with the shoulder socket. By magic, for all Shiro knew.

Behind him, a bevy of robotic guards aim their rifles up at him in unison. Sweat beads on Shiro's brow.

'Red, what can you do?'

*I need at least half a minute to override the ship lockouts.*

Shiro curses under his breath.

"Can you understand me, Terran? You will get down from there immediately. Even if you are the druids' favorite, I won't hesitate to break your legs, Champion," the officer bellows.

*Champion?* Red repeats, loud and incredulous in his head.

Shiro grits his teeth. ‘Red, we need to focus.’

*You. He called you ‘Champion’?*

'It’s Shiro, and I hope you have a few more fancy tricks up your sleeve. Otherwise, I hope you’re ready to go down swinging.’

He leaps down from the cockpit, holding up his fists. To the officer he taunts, "Then come on! Let's see if you can take me on yourself!"

The Galran officer chuckles, readying his stance. "With pleasure. I have always wanted to test your skill personally."   
*Activating any more offensive capabilities could hurt you. Could kill you.”

‘Without you, I’ll be dead anyway. And I’d rather you kill me than this brute, or some Galran mad scientist.’

*I don’t-...there’s no way. Even if you are an undefeated arena vet, this is absolutely crazy. You’re crazy!*

‘I said I'd get you out of here, didn't I? Help you, help me? I'm not giving up on you yet.’ It's all Shiro gets to think before the officer charges him like a bolt of black lightning. Shiro brings Red up at the last second, and the collision of cybernetics thunders through the hangar. He gets an up-close view of the officer's fanged scowl as they hurl their respective mights against one another. The officer’s full strength, however, quickly pushes Shiro’s fatigued muscles to failure. Shiro grunts and slides back on his toes, his knees buckling.

‘Red, please!’ he thinks. ‘Whatever you’ve got, I could use it right now!’

*Shiro…*

"Pathetic," the officer snarls with an amused curl of his brow. He heaves, throwing Shiro off and onto his backside with a heavy thud. "I thought you were the bloodthirsty king of all the arena's freaks and mutants."

The officer raises his massive fist and crashes it down over Shiro's head. He rolls to the side just as it craters into the metal-plated floor, then ducks as a crosswise swipe flies over him. With a casual gait, the officer toys with him like a cat that's cornered a mouse, with the guards forming a loose perimeter around the makeshift arena, keeping Shiro trapped with him.

Shiro waits for an opening, any opportunity to present itself to strike back. Each time he makes it to his feet, yet another chasing swipe hurls him off balance.

His right arm feels almost inert, as if the weight of Red’s hesitation had actual mass. 'Red!' he calls in his mind, forcing his protesting body into another roll. He's breathless, muscles aching. He thinks of Earth, of the Holts.

Of the shaggy-haired cadet. The young man who needed a hand up.

Tears sting his eyes.

'No! I can’t fail. I won't fail!”

He snaps back to avoid another swipe across, but a second too late. A shock of pain erupts dead center of his face, where the hard knuckles of the officer's fist graze the bridge of his nose. The barest tap cracks the bone. He cries out, reflexively covering his face with Red's palm as blood gushes from his nostrils.

"Where is he? Where is this so-called Champion?" the officer booms. His left hand shoots out, dwarfed by his right but still massive in and of itself. It grabs Shiro by the throat, raising him up until his feet dangle and kick. Shiro’s hands fly up, both latching onto the officer’s thick wrist for the barest of support. "How utterly disappointing. Guards, let the witches know that Sendak had to put their misbehaving pet out of its misery."

"Let me go,” Shiro croaks, blood filling his mouth.

Sendak laughs. Shiro’s breath chokes off, and his consciousness fades along with it.

Just as the last gasps leave him, his lips begin to move. Unbidden.

“Let him go.”

Shiro blinks, and his vision goes red. Heat flashes, exploding from his right shoulder down to the very tips of his fingers. It feels as though his right arm were wreathed in flame, just on this side of burning. The red color deepens, and the angry, desperate, overwhelming urge to fight breaks through his oxygen-deprived haze.

Sendak hesitates, his scowl breaking into confusion. He reels from Shiro’s arm, bathing them both in furious violet light. "Who's there?"

The veins pulse to brilliant red, and his hand glows even brighter. Shiro’s bares his teeth, and his mouth moves again, but Red’s words push through his mind and burst from his throat. "I said, let him go!"

Suddenly, Red flashes a bright red, and the smell of burning flesh invades Shiro’s busted nose over the smell of blood. Then, once more unbidden as though remote controlled, his right hand shoots out and slashes upwards.

Sendak howls, and Shiro drops to the ground. As he gasps for breath, he gapes as Sendak's left arm bubbles and sizzles with where Red scorched him. "You!" he bellows.

'That’s what I’m talking about,’' Shiro thinks, looking at his activated hand with awe.

*Get up!*

"Open fire! Kill him!" Sendak orders, stumbling back out of the half-circle of guards.

Muzzles explode with laser fire. Shiro flinches, but either on instinct or by Red’s will, he crosses his right arm in front of him. Light dazzles, and Red projects a forcefield from his wrist, blocking the shots. A shield, Shiro realizes. A quiznacking shield.

"Ugh! Keep, ugh, firing!" Sendak orders, but he slumps, and a guard rushes to hold him up. He falls back, and more robots fill in to cover the gap.

'Red, you’re amazing!’ His vigor renewed with hope, Shiro charges at the nearest robot soldier. In a flash, he trades the shield for the blade of his hand, slicing downward and shearing the rifle in half. He finishes the robot off with a backslash, sparks showering from its severed neck.

He’s lighter than air when he charges the next, eliminating it with the same efficiency. It’s as if his body and body occupied separate into a time streams, the former ahead of the latter as he slips into an easy yet vaguely familiar trance. He doesn’t recognize himself as the man who leaps into another spin, another sweep, and who cuts through the guards like dry wheat, impervious as he flows effortlessly into raising the shield for any incoming shots. This was Red. It had to be Red. Was this the reason why the Empire created such a thing?

*It’s not,* Red tells him as he slashes the legs out from under another robot.

‘This isn’t you?’

*No. All you.*

‘I don’t remember ever learning instincts like this. Why can’t I remember?’ He staggers when the butt of a rifle comes down hard against his shield. ‘I won’t be able to keep this up forever.’ He grunts as he throws his fist against the robot’s face, caving it in. His tired muscles ache, and his bruised throat heaves. He spins and crouches with Red shielding him from another flurry of shots. The number of killer robots seem endless as more pour inside the hangar.

But with the reinforcements comes a wicked voice. It commands,“Sendak! What do you think you're doing? Hold fire! Hold fire!"

The guards obey, and the gunfire stops. As does Shiro, where a robot with its face crushed in thuds to the ground by his feet. The remaining guards back off and divide, allowing a hunched, robed figure to step past. Only her wrinkled lips and long, white hair show from underneath her hood, but Shiro recognizes her instantly.

‘Haggar,’ The insane battle rush, the fire roaring within him, blows away in an instant. Just at the sight of her, the blood in his veins and his feet freeze on the spot.

*Hey, what’s wrong? Shiro, come on! You’re the Champion, we can beat her! This is our chance!* he hears distantly, but all he can do is stare, transfixed on the living nightmare striding toward him as if caught in a paralyzing spell.

Sendak tells her, "As you can see, my lady, your rabid pet broke it's leash. It deserves to be put down!"

"Enough. You have no idea about what you are speaking. Go get treated, and get out of my sight," she orders with a wave of her withered hand.

"As you say," he says with a perfunctory bow, though his nostrils flare with indignation. A second guard helps the first in carrying him away from the hangar.

The hooded woman glances at Shiro, then to Red. Her shriveled lips pull into a wicked smile. "How touching. I had my doubts as to whether he would accept you, but his connection to you truly runs deep, my Champion."

*Shiro!* Red says with a prod to the back of his skull. His hand raises, now returned to its glowing hot state, but Shiro stares ahead, blank and heavy, her voice making him feel like little more than a puppet on strings.

She says, “The quintessence of two remarkable warriors coexisting with one another, without rejection nor competition. How clever of you, Alfor. Very clever.”

Shiro’s lips move. "Stop babbling and get out of our way. I won’t let you hurt him anymore."

The witch reels at this, her eyes squinting. She smiles again with a glint of teeth. “You don’t even remember, do you? How dreadfully tragic. Perhaps that is what makes this possible? No matter. I must thank you both for your service to the Empire. Without you, I could not have unravelled Alfor’s secret.”

“What?” Shiro shuts his eyes, gently pushing past Red’s forward presence in his mind to regain control of his voice. "I don’t care about any of this crazy nonsense. We are leaving!"

"I don't think so. Not for a very long time." The white-haired lady raises her claws, and a flash of gold from her eye peeks from under her hood.

‘Come on, Red!’

*I’m with you!*

With a yell, Shiro leaps, bringing down the edge of his hand in an angled slash across the robed creature. To his shock, she vanishes, his hand sailing harmlessly through nothing more than the eddies of a phantom. She reappears some meters away, but just as he turns to charge again, she splits into a dozen copies that surround him in a blink of an eye. He slashes out with the blade of his hand in a panic, but it passes through them with no effect.

Suddenly, she appears close. Too close. He knows she’s real when the stench of formaldehyde and death assails the back of his throat. In the next instant, her claws rake through his side, the searing pain of which is like nothing he had ever felt in his life. He cries out, falling hard to his knees. The pain wrenches a dry heave from his stomach, and the red tint drains from his vision.

*Shiro!*

The same clawed hand taps his forehead, and he spirals into darkness.

* * *

Shiro ended up in the training wing of the Garrison without having bothered to change clothes.  He had unbuttoned his jacket, but that was as far as he got before his mind barrelled on through one intrusive thought after another.  Why did he get his hopes up?  _ Should _ he have expected this?  Why did he even apply for the Kerberos mission in the first place?  He did everything right. He gave everything. How could they not even give him a chance?   
  
The thumps and shouts of cadets doing hand-to-hand drills in the gymnasium manage to halt his freight train of thought.  The distraction pulls him toward the window, where he watches their sets. Kick, block, yell. Kick, block, yell.

He supposed that the world was just going to keep on spinning.

Somehow, the measured motions and rhythmic sounds soothed his tortured psyche.  He stood there until the class ended, and cadets began to file out.  When they passed by him with odd looks, he took his cue to move on toward the sparring rooms.

The  _ slap slap _ of fists and feet hitting vinyl drew his attention.  He skulked up to the observation window, letting out a heavy breath when he peered inside.  Sanda, Adam, the mission, all of it vanished from his mind when his eyes fell upon his favorite cadet.     
Keith.    
  
He was in the midst of working over a punching bag, too wrapped up to notice the door slide open.  Shiro stepped through, quietly observing the flurry of vicious blows Keith unleashed on the poor bag.  When he paused to wipe his brow with the hem of his loose gym shirt, Shiro cleared his throat.   
  
Keith whipped around, startled.  "Shiro? How long have you been standing there?"   
  
"Just for a minute," Shiro told him.  "Have time for a target who can hit back?"   
  
"Always, but aren't you a little overdressed?"   
  
Shiro had stooped to remove his shoes and socks, then peeled off his jacket and chucked it away in favor of his plain black shirt underneath.  He kept his face turned, but he could feel the scrutinizing gaze of the shaggy-haired junior before him.    
  
"What's up with you?" Keith asked.  “Have you stretched?”   
  
"Let's just spar.  Don't hold back." Shiro dropped into a standard sparring stance, knees slightly bent and hands raised.    
  
Keith's throat bobbed, but he nodded.  "Alright," he said, mirroring Shiro's stance.    
  
"Go."   
  
They circled one another.  Shiro waited, focus sharp. Keith broke first with a lunge and a sharp jab Shiro sidestepped easily, and he sensed it was more of a test to see if he's serious rather than a real punch.  He didn't retaliate as Keith stepped past and spun back around.   
  
"Don't hold back," Shiro repeated.    
  
Keith took another swing, more confident this time, followed up by a swift backhand.  Shiro pushed the first to the side and blocked the other with his forearm, anticipating Keith's rising knee-- a mistake which Shiro took full advantage of.     
  
He rotated away from Keith's knee and, with a sharp kick, knocked Keith onto his back.     
  
"Saw that one coming a mile away," Shiro told him, holding out his hand.  "You're quicker, but your blind spots are obvious."   
  
"Shut up."   
  
Keith huffed, refusing to take his hand as he hoisted himself back to his feet.  Shiro could sense the hesitation boiling off him as he readied his stance once more.   
  
Keith struck again, his feet like lightning, his fists even faster.  A swell of satisfaction rose within Shiro as Keith pushed his reflexes the way no other soul at the Garrison ever had.  His forearms stung, a sign that Keith was truly cutting loose. He barely avoided a sharp back kick to his midsection.   
  
"Good," Shiro said, his breathing starting to become heavy as they continued their dance about the arena.  He deflected a punch, dashed aside from another vicious kick. He grasped Keith by the elbow and with a leg planted behind his knee, Keith went down with another thud against the mat.   
  
" _Damn_ it!" Keith cursed, hauling himself back to his feet.  "Why are you doing this? Did you come all the way down here just so you could kick my ass without even taking your uniform off?"    
  
"I just want to make sure you're getting better."   
  
"'Yeah, right.  ‘Better'? Better than what?"   
  
"You can beat me, Keith."   
  
"How?" He paced, beating his fist against his leg, his nostrils flaring.  "No matter how many times we’ve sparred, no matter what moves I come up with, I still can't even land a hit!"   
  
"Think about your opponent.  Think about what you know about me."   
  
Keith froze in place.  "What?"   
  
"Let's say someone asked you how to beat me.  Hypothetically. What would you say?"   
  
Keith turns up his lip, as if Shiro had spoken in pure gibberish.  He shook his head. "I can't."   
  
Shiro straightened from his stance.  "Sure you can. You usually have something to say about everyone.  I want to hear what you have to say about me."   
  
Keith balled his fists.  "No, I mean I  _ can't. _  I'd tell them it's a lost cause."   
  
"Keith?"   
  
He’s not certain what he sees in Keith’s gaze, but it comes out as a mirthless laugh.  "You're perfect. There's nothing wrong."   
  
It was Shiro’s turn to reel, cocking his head.  "Stop teasing. Everyone has their blind spots. And if anyone can see mine, it's you."   
  
Keith scoffed at that, snatching up his discarded towel by the punching bag.  "Why would you think that? I'm the worst person for whatever the point of this was."  Keith blew past him in a wake of warm, musty air.    
  
"Keith-, hey!  Wait!" Shiro chased Keith out into the hallway and touched him on the arm.     
  
He snatched his hand back when Keith whipped around, saying, "I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't work your problems out with me without telling me what they even are.  Maybe  _ that's _ your blind spot."   
  
"I'm sorry.”   
  
"What's wrong?  Really wrong?"   
  
At Keith’s wide, piercing eyes, Shiro knows the reason why he came here. 

"I’ll tell you everything.  Meet me at the garages after meal hour?"

"You know Iverson doesn't like me going out so soon before curfew."   
  
“Since when do you care?”

“Since when do you not?”

Shiro smiled, unable to contain it. "Go hit the shower, you stinker."   
  
That earned him a grin. "See you later, old timer.”


	6. Chapter 6

The first thing Shiro registers is that the horrid gag is back in his mouth.

Secondly, his entire face throbs, and his nasal passages are tight with dried blood. At least he has stopped bleeding.

Lastly, his guts feel like they’ve been torn into by a grizzly bear. The urge to vomit rouses him fully awake. As he swallow down the bile, memories of recent events come flooding back. Sendak. Haggar. Red. Red.

He calls out in his mind, continuing to swallow down the urge to heave.

'Red? You there?'

*Shiro...you’re alive?*

Something like relief washes over him. The silence in his brain that only a short while ago seemed so ordinary would have deeply troubled him now.

‘Going to take more than a tangle with a heavily-armed psychopath and an equally psychotic witch to take me down,’ he thinks, but hisses when the sting in his side throbs with his every movement.

*I’m glad. You had me worried.*

‘Worried, huh?’

*I detected very little brain activity for several vargas.*

He recognizes the drab ceiling, and figures he must be back in the laboratory. He looks over to his right shoulder, and at the juncture between his flesh and the prosthesis, he finds a device clamped around him that had not been there before. He strains to lift it. He cannot even flex the arm, as much as he tries. ‘What…’

*An inhibitor,* Red informs him. *A powerful one, too. I'm working on overriding it, but don't touch it. Tearing it off could disconnect me from you completely.*

'I assume that's bad,' Shiro thinks, blinking back the bleariness in his eyes. He grunts as more jolts of pain radiate from his side.

*Really bad. The shock would guarantee permanent brain damage.*

'Got it. I’m not going anywhere soon with this wound, anyway.’

*Yeah. Wait. What wound?*

'I'm sorry, Red. I'll figure this out, I swear.'

*Better be quick about it. Who knows what Haggar wants with us now that she knows our bond took.*

As Red speaks the devil’s name, the lab door opens, and the familiar patter of footsteps sweep across the floor. Shiro recoils when the witch in question peers over him, along we her attendant. The attendant has pale markings on his long face, and lacks a hood. He does not appear to be a druid, but wears a breathing mask over his mouth.

“So the Terran proved to be a useful subject after all,” the attendant says.

Haggar speaks. "You may want to save your self-congratulation. The integration was successful, but now comes the difficult part. Since this was your idea, you will assist me in finding a way to remove the key, while keeping its connection with the Black Lion active.”

‘Black Lion?’ Shiro wonders, recalling the mechanical beast from that strange vision, or dream-- whatever it was.

"Where should I begin?" the attendant asks.

"That's for you to figure out, and quickly. While our lord is pleased by this recent development, he expects to have full control of the Black Lion soon."

"What about the Terran?" the attendant asks.

Haggar turns her nose. "It's not necessary if he survives. He has served his purpose.”

“I understand, my lady.”

“Our lord requires my presence. I will expect a satisfactory update on your progress when I return.”

“Vrepit sa.”

“Vrepit sa.”

*What do we do?* Red's question creeps into Shiro’s mind.

'Not sure. Probably wouldn't get two paces before they gun me down for good this time.'

*Great.*

'I'm not giving up.'

Even though he tells Red this, Shiro breaks out into a sweat as the effort to ignore the searing pain in his side begins to overwhelm him. He listens as the witch slithers out, and the laboratory doors hiss shut. Muffled behind the gag, he makes his pathetic pleas. The attendant seems to ignore him as touches his hand to Shiro’s open wound and looks it over. Shiro’s yell surges around the gag, and he coughs on threads of saliva in his throat.

The attendant turns, reaching for a vial of a gooey green substance. With a bony finger, her pulls down his mask. He says, “Hold still. I must treat this quickly.”

His hand comes back to Shiro’s side, and he upturns the vial onto the wound. His palm feels uncomfortably hot in stark contrast to the ice cold substance coating his flesh. He shouts again, delirious. Between the sensations and the stabbing pain of raw flesh knitting back together, Shiro barely registers the attendant speaking to him.

“She is crafty, that Haggar. Too much for her own good,” he says, his voice low.

Shiro catches on that, eyes darting up to him as he takes a shuddering breath.

The attendant continues, “She believes anything in reality can be brought under her control, when nothing could be further from the truth.” Shiro slumps as his pain ebbs, like electricity being cut from a wire.

*What’s going on?*

‘Red, this Galra…’ Shiro starts, but suddenly, the the Galra is in his face, and his large hand covers his mouth. “You will remain quiet if you want to have any hope of getting out of here.”

Shiro’s eyes bulge in shock, but he nods.

“I’m removing my hand. Stay quiet,” the attendant tells him.

The Galra rips out the gag, causing Shiro to sputter and gasp. He whispers, “Who are you?”

“My name is Ulaz. And you - both of you - are the hope my people have been waiting for.” He then moves to the inhibitor around his arm. He floats his long fingers over the locking mechanism.

‘He’s helping us,’ Shiro thinks. The inhibitor vibrates, resonating with the Galra’s hand. After a few seconds, the lock snaps and falls away harmlessly.

*Why?*

“Why?” Shiro asks, flexing his wrist as control returns to his arm.

Ulaz says, “Not all Galra serve the Emperor unquestioningly. My people can see that has thrown away lasting prosperity for power. Also, it is my penance. Now get up.”

Shiro sits up slowly, still mindful of the pain at his side, but finds it gone. Ulaz dabs the strange goo onto his nose and, within seconds, the bone and cartilage set back into place, and the dried blood in his sinuses dissolves. “Thank you,” Shiro says, swallowing as it drains down the back of his throat.

“Do not thank me. It is your charge now to keep that device out of Zarkon's hands," he says, nodding to his arm.

"I can understand why. I've never seen anything do the things he can do."

“He?”

“The intelligence. Red, I call him.”

Ulaz nods. He says, "I am not referring what your ‘Red’ can do. I am referring to what he can control.”

Shiro thinks for a moment. “The Black Lion.”

*What?*

Ulaz says, “Indeed. It is Zarkon’s obsession. Alfor gave him all the pieces, but he is like a frustrated child in putting them together.”

*What does he mean?*

"What do you mean?" Shiro asks.

"Are you familiar with why the Empire and the Kingdom are at war?"

"That was over the comet that crashed along their border almost four decades ago."

"Yes and no. Then, the powers were not at war. We sought mutual cooperation. Together, with their combined research, Zarkon and Alfor constructed from the comet a great robotic beast. The Black Lion.”

“Why would they cooperate to make a weapon?”

Ulaz shakes his head. “It was not intended to be a weapon. Not at first. It was meant to be a vehicle of discovery and exploration.”

Shiro reels. "I think I've seen it."

"Have you?” Ulaz asks.

*You didn't bother to mention this to me?* Red asks Shiro, hotly.

'You had just been put my brain through a ringer. Pardon me if I had more pressing concerns, like, I don't know, survival?' Shiro thinks back. To Ulaz, he says, "I haven't seen it physically. But when Red, the arm, interfaced with me, I had a vision of it."

Ulaz turns from him, a scowl crossing his lip. "Then this only verifies our suspicions. Through you, the arm has awoken the Black Lion. You must be very careful from now on, Shiro."

*I do feel a low-grade resonance here. Like something is reaching out to me. This doesn't make any sense,* Red says.

Shiro asks, "What does that mean? ‘Awoken’?”

“We do not know exactly. Haggar has had great difficulty in engineering the technology. It was taken from Alfor's design, after all.”

“Alfor? King Alfor made this?”

“He grew bed-ridden after relations soured between our peoples, and before the Lion was finished. Perhaps it is not complete, or the link between you is not. That gives us time, which is good news for our cause.”

*I'm not 'fully complete'?*

Ulaz says, "We have dawdled for far too long. Come, I will escort you."

"Where are we going?"

Ulaz says, "Where else? To where the Black Lion is kept."

"The Black Lion is here," Shiro says in disbelief. "You know where it is."

“I know where all Diba-tech curiosities lurk within this compound. It was my role.”

"Was?"

Ulaz unfastens the rest of his restraints, saying, "By helping you, my cover is blown. Haggar will know it was me who betrayed her. All that is left for me is to aid your escape. Do not waste the opportunity."

"What am I supposed to do when I get to it? They don't exactly teach you how to operate mysterious robotic beasts at the Garrison."

"Were you not paying attention? He can help you with that," Ulaz says, nodding to his arm.

*I think he's right. Shiro, I think this Black Lion might our best and only chance out of here.*

Shiro slips off of the exam table as Ulaz goes to the door. It swishes open, where two robotic sentries flank either side. He commands, "I am removing the subject. Leave your post."

The sentries stand firm. "Directive. The prisoner must not leave our proximity," one of them says.

Ulaz sighs. "Very well." He flashes Shiro a look. Shiro keeps his wrists together in front of him as the sentries fall in behind him. They don’t seem to notice his lack of inhibitor.

They march from the lab, and through the long series of darkened corridors of which Shiro has grown accustomed. A rush of claustrophobia hits him when he glances at the ceiling, and his spine tightens with every heavy footfall of the guard keeping pace behind him. He swallows, and swallows again, pulse hammering in his ears.

*You're panicking.*

'I'm not-...okay. Yeah.'

*Just remember to breathe. I'm with you, alright?*

Shiro's head clears a little at that. He rolls Red's words over in his mind as his lungs pull in fresh air, and he relaxes enough to keep his baser instincts from making him do anything stupid, like making a run for it.

After the seemingly interminable trek through the maze of halls, they arrive at an elevator. He boards after Ulaz, followed by the two guards. Ulaz punches a command into the input console.

As the elevators jostles in its descent, the guards lift their rifles.

"That destination is restricted access. Verification required. Present authorization code."

Ulaz sighs. He inputs another series of instructions into the elevator console, then steps between them and Shiro. He pulls a dagger from his waistband, and in a flash, he decapitates both with two rapid slashes.

Shiro startles as the dead robots stagger and fall with heavy thuds. He's stunned even further when he sees that the strange dagger has transformed into an elegant sword. "Who...?"

The dagger returns to its original form. Ulaz sheathes the blade, saying, "The network I serve is called the Blade of Marmora." He then reaches behind him, extracting another dagger just like his own. On its hilt is a strange, jagged rune that seems to thrum with magic. "I told you this was to be my penance as well as my duty. Here. Take it."

"What?"

"Should you successfully escape with the Black Lion, you must take it to our base in the Mountains. It is a treacherous path, and I will provide you with coordinates of the only way through. When you arrive, present them with this dagger." He bows his chin. "And tell Krolia...tell Krolia I'm sorry. There was nothing I could do."

He presses the hilt into Red's palm. The moment Shiro's eyes fall on the glyph adorning its hilt, his mind goes blank.

The next sensation he registers is his nose filling with the scent of blood. Pain rips through his arm, sudden and shocking. Screams erupt all around him. No, _cheering_. And he lifts his chin and his heart lurches. He squints in the bright light, but there's a shadow standing over him. Shaggy hair, piercing violet eyes.

He’s torn, slamming back into the present when Red seizes.  'Red, what's-, ah!' His fingers twitch, and he drops the dagger. His knuckles bend in ways that they shouldn't. He claps his other hand onto his bicep, willing the spasms to stop, but it is little use.

"What's happening?" Shiro asks.

Ulaz says, "A reaction."  He frowns.  "I thought as much might happen. He once wielded that blade himself, you see."

"Huh?" Shiro croaks out. The spasms subside, but his mind remains silent.

The elevator jostles to a stop, and its doors slide open.

"I knocked out the security feed from the lift, but it will not be long before they suspect a breach. Stay silent. We must be quick,” Ulaz says.

'Red,' Shiro prods as he dashes out behind Ulaz's lead. 'Red! You still with me?'

Red's voice crackles in his mind. *Shiro. The knife. He's not lying. It belonged to me.*

Shiro carefully stows the blade inside his waistband of his pants. 'How?'

*I don't...I don't know. It's just so familiar.*

'Were you a Galra?'

*Maybe.*

'Maybe this Blade of Marmora can help you remember.'

*Do you think we can trust them?*

'We don't have much choice. It's our best chance, right?'

*Maybe they can help you find your friends, too.*

Shiro perks at that, surprised at how he had forgotten about the Holts in all the confusion. 'That's right. Someone in their network has to know something! Okay, we're definitely going to steal this Black Lion, whatever it takes.'

Ulaz halts, ducking them behind an archway. “There is a fork ahead, and it is where we must part ways. Here, your arm can store the coordinates you will need. Again, out base is hidden in treacherous lands, so you must follow them exactly."

As Ulaz taps his arm and inputs information, Shiro asks, "You're not coming with us?"

"No. I cannot."

"I can't just leave you behind. Not after all of this."

Ulaz lip twitches as the hard angles of his gold eyes soften. "Do not concern yourself, but I thank you for your compassion, Shiro. I think I understand why he is so devoted to you."

"Who?" Shiro cocks his head. "Red?"

*Whatever. I wouldn't go that far.*

"Well, I am the one with the legs here after all," Shiro answers, to both of them.

Ulaz chuckles. "I feel I can rest easy with the knowledge that Haggar made such an laughable miscalculation. Are you familiar with quintessence?" Ulaz asks.

"Only brief mentions. Too occult for more than a page in Garrison science textbooks. Something like life force?"

Ulaz nods. "An imprecise description, but it is well enough. Know this. What you carry is more than a battle computer. It is, in your parlance, a soul."

"A soul,” Shiro repeats, gazing down at Red. It makes a weird sort of sense. “Who is it?"

Ulaz places a hand on his shoulder, sympathy clouding his features.

"Who?" Shiro asks again, his throat suddenly dry.

Ulaz says, "It is no longer important. What matters is that Zarkon desires is not just the arm itself, but rather your bond that not even death can extinguish."

Shiro grips the dagger handle. "I don't understand."

"Only the both of you working together can make the Black Lion move or stop. Embrace it, and you will save our world."

Suddenly, the lights dim, and the hallway floods with red light.

_ATTENTION ALL PERSONNEL. CONVERGE ON LEVEL B3. CONVERGE ON LEVEL B3. SECURITY BREACH DETECTED. INITIATE LOCKDOWN. REPEAT…_

A stampede of clanging footsteps rumbles down the corridor behind them. Ulaz says, "I will cause a distraction. Can you fight?"

'What do you think, Red?'

His hand flickers in response. He nods to Ulaz.

"Good. The bay you are looking for is will be on the right path. Bay 4. Come!"

Shiro has no choice but to sprint as Ulaz takes off, darting through the halls awash with glaring red light.

* * *

 

Shiro caught himself smiling as he recalled Keith's scrunched up nose and annoyed frown. Keith certainly was an influence. Not an altogether bad one, Shiro thought as he made his way to the commissary.

He picked up some freeze dried meats and fruit, knowing exactly what Keith would say.  That he worried too much.  That Keith can more than take care of himself. For a split second, he hesitates at the purchase counter, earning a confused look from the clerk. _Was_ he being too much of a mother hen?

Who else would care?  Who would reinforce the self-discipline Keith needed to truly soar?  Who else was going to do that for him? _Iverson?_

He frowned, but thanked the clerk and handed her what he owed. He shoveled the supplies into a satchel on top of a pair of binoculars, a hunting knife, and a large canteen of water. Then, off to the garages.

He fibbed about being asked to take a delivery into the nearby town. The quartermaster nodded, handing him two sets of keys with starry eyes. But when he looked at the requisition roster, he frowned.

"I don't see where your commanding officer made a request," he said.

Shiro anticipated this. "It was last minute, so it may not have come through yet. Don't worry about it, we'll be back before dark."

"Well, if it were anyone else but you, Shiro," the quartermaster says, handing over the key with a smile. "Here you go.  An don't let him get away from you."

"I won't.  Thanks."

He found Keith leaning against a hoverbike, arms crossed, red jacket fitted about his shoulders.  Shiro tossed a key to him, and he snatched it with one hand, his eye catching on the satchel at Shiro's hip. 

"You are such a boy scout," Keith told him.

"One of us has to be."

They rode the hoverbikes out, far out, until the pavement ended, and beyond where even the dirt trails had begun to fade.  The air whipping through his hair had felt so good.  It was a risky route to take, with plenty of hairpin turns and drop offs, but saved half the time getting to the sunset ridge-- even faster if you knew about the cliff-diving trick.  Keith finally had gotten the hang of it, trailing him off the edge, and pulling up at just the right time and at the right angle.  He whooped, laughing as he skidded across the dust, and Shiro couldn't help but feel overcome with his own fit of howling.

They arrived at the ridge just as the sun began to touch the horizon. 

Keith pulled his bike up next to his and hopped off.  "Would a boy scout put thousands of units worth of equipment at risk like that?" Shiro asked, handing him a water bottle.  As he hoped, Keith's eyes rolled in that certain way he adored.

He told Keith about the mission. Why, what it meant. That Kerberos would be the first real test of his instincts and skills.

"So you're going?"

"As long as Sanda gives in, and she will. I doubt she'll want to be the reason the timeline stalls."

"What about, um," Keith started.

"Hmm?"

"Nevermind."

"Come on. Spit it out."

"Adam."

Shiro quirked his brow. "What about him?"

"Is he okay with it?"

Sobering, Shiro leaned back against the hoverbike.  The vivid, fiery oranges and reds drew his eye toward the horizon. He said, "Yes and no. Let's just say it's been great for clearing the air between us. Not so great for us otherwise."

"Oh."

The breeze rolled over them, whipping sand against the bikes' metal chassis.

"Anyway, I want to be sure I give you my congratulations as well in case I don't get the chance to. You'll be junior officer in just a few short months. I'm sorry I probably won't be there to see it," Shiro said.

Keith grinned.  "Better watch out. You should see my preliminary scores. I might outrank you by the time you get back," he teased.

"That I don't doubt, actually," Shiro confessed. "I'm really proud of you."

Keith hesitated.  His mouth dropped open, then closed.  Finally, "Doesn't bother you?"

"What, that I'm proud of you?"

Keith rolled his eyes again, playful this time. "I mean about my scores."

Shiro shrugged. "Should it? Success isn't an all or nothing kind of thing. Besides, Terra needs exceptional officers, and if it means I have to take a step back, then so be it."

"You think I'm an exceptional officer."

"I know you will be. And when I'm gone, you'll be on your own to decide what you're going to do with the responsibility."

Keith frowned, folding his arms. "Stop talking like that. You're going to make it back. By then, the doctors will know how to fix you right up."

Shiro dropped his chin, sighing. As if drawn by magnetism, he reached out with his right hand, clasping Keith on his left shoulder. "Sometimes I think you're the only one in the whole world who doesn't treat me as if I'm already a dead man."

Keith tensed, but didn't offer a response to that. Instead he gazed out with him, where the sinking sun cast its deep red light. Shiro's hand remained where it was as ticks, perhaps dobashes went by.  He felt light, but as if in a sinking boat.  Like the only thing keeping him tethered to shore was his trembling grip on Keith.

"What if I don't come back?"

Keith looked over. He shrugged, unbothered by the weight Shiro threw behind the question. "I'd come find you."

Shiro huffed out a laugh, dropping his hand.  In an instant, the dry ground came back under his feet.

"You would, would you?"

"I'm serious. Wherever you are, I'd bring you back home."

"And what if I ended up smack in the middle of the Empire?"

"Doesn't matter."

"You're telling me you'd single-handedly go up against the Galra Empire?" He turned his lip, considering this. "I'm feeling better about my odds already, then. But I promise you won't have to do that."

His jocular mood vanished when he noticed the glassy sheen in Keith's eyes.

Thinking of nothing better, Shiro said, "Hey, let's get you back. It'll be dark soon."

Keith nodded, thumbing at the corners of his eyes before mounting his bike.


	7. Chapter 7

Ulaz tears his sword from its belt as they approach the fork in the corridor. Already, two sentries block their path. Their rifles raised, they blare: “Halt!”

Red lights up as Shiro and Ulaz press their charge, launching into a full sprint. Ulaz dives for the left guard, so Shiro homes in on the right. The guards open fire and light up the red-washed hall, energy bullets grazing past them. With an expert throw, Ulaz embeds his sword into the skull of his target. Meanwhile, Shiro closes the distance with shield raised, retracting it at the last second with a backslash of his hand. His target crumples to the floor, a clean gash torn through its body.

Ulaz rips his blade from the robot. He stands, gesturing to Shiro. “Go right. Bay 4.”

“Ulaz…”

“Just go!” Ulaz barks, taking off down the other hall.

“Thank you,” Shiro says to his retreating form.

*Guess we’re on our own now.*

‘Then let’s not waste time.’

*Right.*

Shiro darts down the right path, immediately coming up on a set of wide double doors. B-1, its markings read. ‘Bay 1,’ he surmises, dashing past.

*We’re close to it, Shiro. The resonance keeps getting stronger.*

“Halt!”

Shiro tenses as the noise of a stampede follows behind the command. Bullets whiz and burst past, scorching the walls and floor ahead of him on impact. He runs for his very life, not even daring a look back over his shoulder. He’s gasping for breath by the time he reaches the end of the hall, where the etching of B-4 declares itself across the wide double doors.

He slams Red against the lock. There’s no conscious command, just his vision changing as Red does exactly what he needs him to do. The lock blips green and the doors peel apart. He grimaces when a stray bullet shallowly grazes his thigh as he tumbles inside. ‘Ah!’

*Shiro?*

‘I’m okay,’ he thinks, but freezes when he opens his eyes. His breath catches. There, surrounded by a blue polygonal barrier, sits the giant robotic lion. The Black Lion, exactly as he dreamed. He leans back as he stares up at the great beast crowned with its golden ears. Though inert, he senses its powerful gaze tingling over his skin. 'Its enormous,' he tells Red, its scythe-like claws almost as long as he is tall.

He flinches when bullets pepper the barrier. He ducks, looking about for any gap in the polygonal panels. 'Can I just-?' He walks forward, testing as to whether he might simply pass through. However, his sore nose collides with it as he bounces off. 'Ah!'

*You just walked into it, didn't you?*

'Shut up.'

Shouting sounds just outside the door. "In there! With the Lion!"

'Quiznak! How do I get inside?' Shiro thinks.

*Let me try!*

Shiro presses Red against the barrier and, instantaneously, it retracts. A lion's roar rumbles, not so much in his ears, but through his mind. He gasps when the Lion's golden eyes flash, and it pitches forward, opening its great jaws as if to snap him up. But instead, a ramp extends from its open mouth.

'Alright!' Shiro needs no further invitation.

The jaws shut behind him. He ascends to the cockpit, and through its wide, semi-circular window he sees a swarm of guards pour through the bay doors. Light explodes from their rifles, peppering the mech in a continuous hail of gunfire, but the machine’s armor at least seems impervious to their attacks.

Shiro slips into the cockpit seat. He places his hands on the twin control sticks by his knees. They jiggle, loose and dead. 'Alright, how do I get this thing to move?'

*Look around. I feel its mind, Shiro. I can't explain it.*

Red thrums, vibrating in a low frequency resonance. Shiro glances up, down, to the side. He freezes when he sees a circular port off to his right. Dots of red light pulse with the same rhythm as Red's veins.

The rumble of the Lion floats through his mind.

'I got it,' Shiro tells him. He punches Red into the port and turns it like a key.

The gunfire stops when the Lion raises up from its haunches and roars, knocking the guards flat onto their backsides. The cockpit controls light up, presenting Shiro with control panels as complex and intimidating as the Lion's exterior. He’s struck dumb by the sheer elegance of it.

‘These read outs, these sensor displays...this is so much more advanced than anything I have ever seen in my life! How are we going to move this thing?’

Red answers with whoops and hollers in his mind. But then, his voice resounds from the cockpit itself, as if he were standing beside Shiro. "Shiro! I'm, I'm a Lion! Woo hoo!"

Shiro grins. Stupidly grins. He should not be so thrilled as he is to hear Red's voice, free from inside his head, but he can't help it. He’s elated for him. "Amazing!"

A renewed burst of gunfire at the cockpit yanks him back to the present as the guards stand and shake off their stun. He says, "Can you get us out of here?"

"Yes, sir! Just point me where you want me."

Shiro removes his hand from the port and grips the control sticks. He banks them, and the giant mecha turns about face, its bulk and tail knocking aside cranes and crumbling catwalks as if they were sand sculptures. Behind them, however, is a thick steel wall, so he points the head up. Above him, he spots the interlocking seams of a Lion-sized hatch, but they appear firmly sealed.

"There seems to be a way out above us, but the door is shut tight. Any ideas?"

"How about this?"

The console flashes with a diagram, and in a burst of light Shiro sees the tops of twin blades sprouting from the Lion's jaws. "Perfect!" he says. He pulls the sticks, and the mecha rises on its back legs, its foreclaws digging into the solid steel of the hatch like soft clay. The edge of the blade pierces the seams and Shiro moves it, carving out an exit with incredible efficiency. With a snap of its paw, he rips away the torn scraps of the door. Beyond appears to be a long shaft up to the surface, black as night.

He hears a rumble and boom. The ground shakes, and on instinct, Shiro pushes the control sticks forward and the Lion leaps into the dark, cavernous cylinder. And none too soon, as a raging fireball tears through the bay below.

“Ulaz!” Shiro says.

“We have to keep climbing!” Red says.

With little other option, Shiro pitches the control sticks forward, and the Lion bounds up the sides of the shaft, ripping and flaying at its walls. Another terrible explosion rolls through, nearly shaking its claws loose, but the Lion holds on.

A third explosion, however, sets off another fireball that rushes up from below.

“Red! We have to move faster!” Shiro calls.

“We’re almost out! About a hundred more meters!”

With light from the jaw blade, Shiro sees a second set of hatch doors. With a final leap, the blade carves a deep gash through the steel. But just as he carves out a second, the blast wave slams into them.

The hatch doors buckle, and flames wreath the view from the cockpit. Shiro braces, yelping as the Lion is sent hind legs over tea kettle along with crumpled pieces of the hatch door. They blow out from the shaft like a cannonball into the night sky, streaking out across the stars.

Miraculously alive, Shiro blinks as he fights off his disorientation. He tightens his grip on the control sticks, wrestling with them as their momentum shifts and the Lion arcs into a nosedive. “Red! You still with me? Red!” he calls as the ground races for them. He grunts as he pulls back the sticks as far as he can go, willing the giant beast to at least crash land on its feet.

At the last second, the the Lion unfurls, its paws spread. It touches ground with a heavy jolt, but immediately leaps with an unnatural grace. The moonlight casts across a barren, deserted valley that seems to stretch forever beyond the facility. It takes a galloping leap, then another when it lands, soaring like a rocket.

Red’s laughter resounds through the cockpit. He laughs and hollers with every stunning leap across hundreds of meters. It's so infectious, and the blinding terror thudding in Shiro’s chest transforms into pure exhilaration. He shouts, letting it loose.

Red says, “I can’t believe it! We’re free! We did it!”

His heart wrenches when Red whoops again and suddenly, intrusively, Shiro imagines himself on a hoverbike, heading out toward sunset ridge. His laughter drops off, but his smile remains.

“Unbelievable. We had no idea anything like this was being developed from that comet," he says.

"No wonder Zarkon and the Empire wants to control it."

"And it's even more important that we keep it from them."

Red lights flash on the console. Shiro taps it, and angry red icons project onto the display. "Speaking of, I don't think we're out of the woods yet. I think we have incoming fighters on our tail."

"I sense them. What should we do?"

The ground explodes all around them as the fighters lay in with gunfire. Shiro jerks the controls, weaving between the thick pillars of dust and smoke. "We have to shake them, and get to Ulaz's coordinates. What else can you do?"

"I'm detecting other subsystems, but...but I can't access them all. I don't think it has enough power."

“How can we give it more?”

"You're asking me? Wait...what about this?"

The lion's maw opens, and a high intensity laser beam shoots out across the ground, splitting a trench through the earth.

"That'll work!" Shiro says, pulling back on the controls. The Lion spins around, facing the oncoming fighters. "Fire!"

The laser cuts into the sky and straight through a line of Galran fighters. They explode and tailspin into the ground. The laser flashes again, and more are shot down instantly. Shiro weaves so the Lion can continue to turn and burn through half a dozen with every pass. They seem to get the message when finally, the remaining fighters swoop in a wide bank. The swarm peels away in what appears to be a general retreat.

"Yeah! You better run! You can't mess with us now!" Red shouts, voicing Shiro's feelings on the matter exactly.

Breathless, Shiro says, "Red, I know I keep saying this, but you are completely and utterly amazing.”

"It’s not just me, you know.”

"I’m serious. I'd be dead by now without you."

"And I'd still be stuck in that horrible lab. I'd never been able to see the stars again like this."

"Again, huh?" Shiro remarks. He blinks, then reaches, pulling out the dagger nestled in his waistband. He turns it over. He had not noticed before just how light and elegant it is. He sets it down on the console.

Red says, “Shiro...what happened to me?”

All traces of triumph vanish, and Shiro’s face falls. He has no earthly idea.

Suddenly, he jerks forward. He pushes on the controls, but it’s as if someone put a lasso around them and tugged. Hard.

“Red?”

“It’s not the Lion! Something else is pulling on us!”

Dust and debri sucks past them. The pulls gets stronger, so that even heavy boulders on the ground start to loosen and fly. Shiro pitches the controls forward even more, and the Lion’s claws dig into the earth, yet it’s barely enough to keep them on the ground.

The console flashes, and a giant, angry red reticule appears. Helpfully, the console also loads a view of the incoming bogey: a giant robotic head, with two clawed arms bolted to either side of the its hideous face. It has thick brows and a giant, fanged maw, and the entire machine is propelled by a massive thruster underside.

“What is that thing?” Shiro asks.

“Haggar must have sent one of her Diba-tech monsters after us,” Red says. “It’s trying to eat us!”

“Red, I’m going to turn us around.”

“What?”

“Fire the laser when I do. We’ll see if it likes to chew on that.”

“Yes, sir!”

They execute. Shiro pulls back, and they’re yanked off the ground towards the monster’s awaiting jaws. The Lion spins, and its laser bursts from its jaws to pierce down the throat of the robotic monster.

The maw clangs shut, and with its tractor interrupted, the Lion drops to the ground with a heavy thud. Shiro winces with the jolt, but he looks up at the motionless monster with a thread of hope winding through his gut.

“Did we get it?” he asks.

“I’m not sure,” Red responds.

Then, the monster’s eyes flash and its maw opens. A burst of raw energy shoots out, the shockwave slamming into the Lion’s chassis. The console flickers and Shiro sickens from the unbearable noise and pressure.

When the force and violent shaking dissipates, Shiro groans. ”Status,” he croaks out.

Red crackles back, “Status is...ouch. That attack drained a lot of power.”

“I think it turned our attack against us.”

“If the laser doesn’t work, then what can we do?”

“Too risky to get in close with the jaw blade, too.” He closes his eyes. He says, “Red, form the jaw blade anyway. We have to try everything we have.”

“Roger.”

The jawblade materializes. The monster yawns again, and the valve over its throat retracts. The pull starts back up, lifting the Lion off of the ground as if it were a ragdoll. Shiro guns it, then pulls back to control the ascent, but their momentum snowballs. They slam against the monster, forepaws wedged in its top jaw, hind legs propping open the bottom. The monster continues to draw them into its mouth, and the Lion's armor groans as the crushing forces against it threaten to snap it in half.

"We can't take this!" Red calls.

Shiro grunts as the control sticks shake so violently they threaten to come loose in his hands. But then, the console flickers. Another red dot appears on the scanner, followed by a flashing green light.

“Incoming signal from...a Galran fighter?” Red informs him.

“Accept it,” Shiro taps the feed, and suddenly, he’s presented with a very familiar face. “Ulaz!”

From the cockpit of the fighter, Ulaz nods to him. “Shiro. You have done well. I regret that I could not stop the launch of Haggar’s latest abomination.”

“It’s alright. I’m just glad to see you made it out. What can we do about, uh, him?”

Ulaz drops his chin, and his golden gaze along with it. He says, “You can only run."

The fighter unleashes a hail of bullets down onto the monster, knocking it aside so Shiro can tear the Lion free. He lands it on its paws, turning to look up to the sky. "Run? We can beat this thing together!" Shiro insists.

"No, we cannot. The Lion is not complete. Your only option is to take the Lion as far away from Zarkon as possible.”

"Not complete?"

"Go! I know how to deal with this creature."

"But-,"

Red says, "Shiro, come on! He can handle this! We have to get to the Marmora, right?"

"Right. You're right," Shiro says, pushing the Lion forward into a gallop.

The monster, having recovered itself, opens its jaws once again. Ulaz peppers it with bullets, buzzing about like a mosquito. But the monster is quick, pivoting until the hold of its tractor grips him.

"Ulaz!" Shiro says, stopping short. He turns. Instead of trying to escape, a burst of thrusters propel Ulaz up and into the monster's awaiting mouth. The jaw slams shut, gobbling him down.

"No..." Shiro breathes. He braces when the monster rotates towards the Lion. However, when it tries to open its jaws again, it suddenly seizes. Its arms go rigid, and the thrusters on its underside sputter. Soon the heavy mech tips and tumbles from the sky, barreling toward the ground like a meteor. When it slams into the ground, a dome of dirt and fire blast out from the impact. Twisted metal flies as the force sweeps away rock, dust, and Lion alike.

The Lion tumbles and somersaults, the chaotic violence knocking Shiro about. The machine finally comes to rest on its side after having dug a few trenches through the soft dirt of the valley. Shiro's next breath bursts from his lungs as he had forgotten to breathe.

A long, silent moment passes as eddies of dust float by. "It's...?" Shiro starts.

"Destroyed. I'm detecting no other signatures, hostile or otherwise," Red informs him.

Shiro shuts his eyes. The weight, multiplied by the silence of the comms, sinks into his bones. "Ulaz. He sacrificed himself."

"Yeah."

"He really believed in us."

"You think he shouldn’t?"

Shiro frowns. "No, I don’t think that." With the threat gone, and the dark of night shrouding them, Shiro pulls the Lion to rise, and gently pushes into a saunter. “We need to keep going. We won’t let his sacrifice be in vain. If there's a network of Galra defectors among the Empire, then we need to meet them."

“Wait a minute.”

“What?”

"We're exhausted."

Shiro blinks, admitting that his eyes feel heavy, and his stomach feels like it's caving in on itself with hunger. The adrenaline from their escape, however, dulls the sensations well enough. "So?"

"The Lion's energy is replenishing on its own, but it needs time to recover. You do, too."

"We can keep going. We can't waste time," Shiro insists. Despite his insistence, when Shiro's muscles relax with the calm, easy sway of the Lion's saunter, he struggles to keep his focus sharp and his head up.

"We're not going to make it very far if you fall asleep while we're out here in the open."

Shiro grumbles. He admits that a light rest would be better for his alertness. "Alright. We'll use the cover of night to put some more distance between us and the Galran base. Then we can find a cave or something to hide in for a while."


	8. Chapter 8

Shiro pushes forward, and with powerful leaps, the Lion bounds across the night-shrouded landscape. It’s a total wilderness, and he can only rely on Red displaying the direction of Ulaz's coordinates on his console. As part of his education in the Garrison, Shiro knew that Galran territory was vast, and much of its features were hostile to life, let alone explorers and cartographers. It was no secret that the Galra found sharing scientific information with Terra to be a waste of time, even during friendlier times. Therefore, that served as the extent of Shiro’s knowledge on the subject of Galran geomorphology.

The canyons of sun-baked dirt and dunes end abruptly with a short drop off. They risk shining a light from the Lion’s mouth down across the the thick trees that blanket the valley beyond the bluff, obscured by a swirling miasma of fog. They leap in among the branches, landing on the soft, water-logged ground of a swamp. The mecha's paws sink into the mud up to its elbow in some places, and it's slow going. But like a predator prowling in the bush, the cover helps keep them hidden from any hostile patrols.

  
“Look,” Shiro says, fighting back a yawn. The Lion’s paws finally find purchase on a firm patch of ground within an enormous hollow of a tree, big enough for the Lion to enter and turn about. He lets go of the controls, and the Lion settles back on its haunches. Its exterior lights turn off. "Think we can catch our breath here?"   
  
"I'm not detecting any hostile signatures, but I'll keep the sensors active just in case."

Shiro slumps back in the pilot chair, a haze of exhaustion creeping over him. He can’t stop another yawn from escaping.

"You should get some sleep," Red tells him.

"In a minute." Shiro stands and heads for the back of the cockpit. "Think a complex piece of machinery like this might have a change of clothes and a shower in the back?"

"There are food dispensers, storage rooms, and sleeping quarters. Even a small medical bay," Red informs him as the back door opens into a modestly-sized room. He inspects the doors to the right, finding empty storage space. He explores another set of doors across the way. He sticks his head in, spotting the bunk and, mercifully, what he thinks is a lavatory.

But when he continues on toward the back of the Lion, he spots a peculiar display case. It’s tall and cylindrical, and housed inside is an even more peculiar suit of armor. Its curious black and white markings draw him in even closer.

"Shiro? You okay?"

"Yeah. I think I might have just found a better change of clothes. Cleaner, at least." He looks the suit up and down. No, not just a suit of armor, he thinks. As he studies the round helmet and its glassy visor, he gasps.

“Red,” he calls, whipping around. “Can this thing fly?”

“I’m not sure. There were the other subsystems that I mentioned earlier. Why?”

“There’s a space suit in here! Ulaz did say the Lion was intended for exploration and discovery. The Lion is a _spaceship_ , Red!”

“I think maybe you should lie down."

Shiro rubs a hand over his face. “I know, but _wow_. A spaceship!”

His mind continues to whirl in disbelief when he enters the sleeping quarters. The Lion was forged from a comet, after all. He doesn’t spare a thought for when he tears his tattered prisoner shirt off himself, but he does pause, however, when he considers removing his pants. "Red?”

“What?”

“Is this okay?"

"Is what okay?"

"How much can you see of me?"

"As I explained, I can ‘see’ in that I can construct a model of you and your surroundings based on radio waves and sound. Seems to be the same principle while I’m in the Lion."

"Oh. Well, I'm taking my clothes off."

Shiro remains motionless when Red doesn't respond for a beat. The latter then says, "So?"

"So, is that okay?"

"Are you embarrassed?"

"What? No! I just didn't want to, you know. Assume?"

"What’s the big deal? It's just me. You know, a giant talking robot, who is sometimes a much smaller talking arm. Besides, I’ve been inside your head. Doesn’t get much more intimate than that."

Shiro chuckles, and a blush creeps over him. “Okay, okay. You’ve got a point.” He’s not sure if he's really embarrassed about his nakedness, or whether he should have been in the first place. It’s just Red, after all. Without any further contemplation, he tugs off his ratty pants and heads for the lavatory.

After a quick wash up, he searches the storage rooms. Predictably, there is nothing edible to speak of, but he does find a change of clothes-- a black jacket and matching pants, along with a pair of boots. He sets the jacket and boots aside for the morning, slipping on the pants for want of anything else.

“Now, where’s that food dispenser?” he asks when the storage room door shuts behind him. He learns that “food” means little more than globs of protein-enriched rich goo from a dispenser, but he gulps a bowl of the vaguely-bitter slime down without complaint. Hunger is the best seasoning, he supposes.

The lone bed is large, but purely functional, and it’s the most comfortable thing his back has been on in ages. His eyes droop the moment he lies flat, but he fights between his body’s desire to fall straight to sleep, and his mind wanting to savor the moment where he actually feels safe.

"Red?" he says, low.

"Yeah?"

"Talk to me."

"About what?"

"About yourself."

A pause. "I don't know what you mean."

"I mean, do you remember anything about your past?"

"You mean before I was put inside an arm."

"Yeah."

"No. It’s like...it’s like do you remember being born? Your time in the womb? It’s like that. I have all these reactions and instincts, but no clear memory."

"What about the blade? What happened when you touched it?"

"More of an emotional reflex than a true memory. The feeling that it's mine, that the blade is important to me, even though I don't know why. It was...overwhelming."

Suddenly, Shiro bolts upright. He throws off the bed sheet and heads straight for the cockpit. There, on the console, he finds the dagger where he left it.

“Shiro? Why are you back in the cockpit?” Red asks.

Shiro swallows, his throat dry. He steels himself, then, with his mechanical arm, he snatches up the knife. He waits, but silent ticks go by. Nothing happens.

“Shiro?” Red prods.

"I saw something. Like a waking nightmare,” Shiro admits.

“What? What was it?”

“The arena. It was so chaotic. Loud.” Shiro turns, trudging from the cockpit and back to bed with the dagger still in hand. “Bright lights. Pain.” He slips back under the covers. He holds the dagger up against his chest. “I saw someone. An opponent.”

“Who?”

Shiro’s jaw tightens, and he looks down at the dagger.

“Shiro, _who?_ ” Red repeats.

Shiro closes his eyes. He swallows down a lump. He then takes the dagger, and slips it under his pillow.

“I’m not sure. I couldn’t see their face because of the lights. I’m sorry.”

“It’s...it’s okay,” Red says.

Shiro doesn’t have to know Red's face to register the disappointment. He rolls to his left side. “They did some horrible stuff to me, but somehow, I think you might have had it worse.”

An uncomfortable beat of silence passes between them, long enough for Shiro to believe they had dropped the subject.

But then, Red speaks. “You know what I remember, Shiro? That I was angry. I was angry all the time, and I didn’t know why. Maybe it wasn’t accidental I killed those Galra. The others who Haggar experimented with.”

“Wait. Red, _you_ didn’t kill them. Haggar did, full stop.”

“I’m still angry, Shiro, but...it’s more tolerable now, somehow. Ever since I met you. Maybe it's for the best that neither of us remembers very much, so that we can both just focus on moving forward.”

Shiro frowns, Red’s words settling like a heavy stone in his gut. “Maybe you’re right.”

He says this, but he turns over, then again. The refuge of sleep he nearly succumbed to only moments ago now seems far out of reach.

* * *

 

Despite his fitful battle to fall asleep, the next time Shiro wakes, he practically springs out of bed. He feels good. Great, even.

"Thanks for convincing me to get some rest. I feel better than I have in quintents," he tells Red.

"The Lion's power has recovered as well. I'm not sure how that works, but the Lion's good to go when we are."

"That's great."

He's in such a good mood that even his breakfast of nutritional goo seems like the best thing he's ever eaten. As he scrapes the last bite out of the bowl and into his mouth, he glances over. The black and white suit, still locked away in its storage case, draws him back in. He sets down his bowl and crosses over to it.

As his eyes rove over the black and white markings, it strikes him that it's cut to about his height and his body shape. He examines the case and finds the latch to open it.

"Shiro?"

"I have to try this thing on," he says as the lock clicks and the glass slides open.

He wishes he could explain how the armor, though rigid and firm like the toughest steel, is also able to bend and conform to his body as though it were cut from cloth. Yet the interlocked plates slip on snugly, and doesn't feel at all hot nor itchy. He snaps on the last arm guard, then rotates to look himself over.

"What do you think?" he asks.

"I'm surprised it even fits," Red answers.

Shiro freezes. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Like it was made for you."

Shiro scoffs. "I can't even tell if that's sarcasm. But you're right. It's a little eerie how well it fits, actually." He scoops up the helmet and places it over his head. It slips on, snug and perfect as well. He raps on it with his knuckles, saying, "Seems pretty sturdy, too."

"Probably wouldn't hurt to borrow it for a while in case we run into any more trouble."

"The Galra will no doubt be searching for us. I think trouble might be more of a guarantee than a probability."

"With the range of these sensors, we may be able to avoid any patrols. But even if we don't, I think we can handle a little trouble."

Shiro smiles and he heads for the cockpit and settles in. "As long as the Galra don't send any more monsters our way. Still have those coordinates?"

"Yes, sir."

"Load them up. Then let's not waste anymore time."

The Lion stands, and they slink out of the hollow of the tree. The trickles of morning sun that filter down from the canopy are bright and warm. Red loads the direction they ought to head in, and Shiro pushes forward through the soft muck.

It's approximately a varga later when the Lion exits the trees into open sky, and the sloping bluff of a plateau greets them. The Lion’s claws tear into the earth as they climb the shallow slope.  When they reach the top, Shiro jerks the control sticks back, commanding a total stop.  He reels, taking in the landscape before them. First, the flat of the plateau is nothing but a steamy plain of boiling tar pits. But beyond them lies a snow-capped mountain range, stretching from horizon to horizon. The grandeur, cloaked in a dark shroud of snow clouds, takes Shiro's breath away. Its peaks are so tall that they seem to hold up the sky.

"How could anyone maintain a base so remote?" Red asks.

Shiro pushes the Lion to advance, leaping between the narrow ridges separating each of the tar pits. "Who knows. But with Zarkon as an enemy, you'd need every barrier between you and him."

"Watch it!" Red shouts.

The Lion teeters when it comes down on a ridge, and a soft patch of soil crumbles away under its heavy paw. On reflex, Shiro pushes the controls forward, and it leaps to safety before more of it slides into the sticky black pool.

" _Quiznak,_ " Shiro breathes. "Seriously, can this thing fly? It would be a big help."

"I’m not a total wizard, Shiro. Although I'm flattered by the implication."

"Nobody's perfect, I guess."

There's a beat of silence, and Shiro can almost hear Red huff at that. He says, "Listen, what I can do is analyze the gaps between the tar, and highlight the ones that are sturdy enough for the Lion's weight. How's that?"

"That...that's great, actually."

An overlay generates across the viewscreen. Some of the ridges ahead flash blue, while others are struck out with red.

“Got it,” Shiro confirms, directing the Lion to cross without any further close calls. The way becomes easier when the density of the pits lessens the closer they get to the first cliffs at the foot of the mountain, where Red directs them upwards.  “Really?” Shiro questions, rearing the Lion to look up at the dizzying height of the dreary peaks above.

"This is the path Ulaz set for us."

"Then this is going to be tricky," Shiro says, pushing the Lion to take a running leap, landing on the first of many, many ledges. Loose rocks cascade from where its claws dig in, and the mountain seems to grow steeper and steeper as the Lion leaps from one crumbling ledge to the next. They start to slide with every slam against the rock as its claws scrape for purchase through the thickening blanket of ice and snow. The wind is so fierce as to be blinding, and Shiro knows he can no longer trust his senses for spatial orientation. "The blizzard is too thick. I have to follow the instrument readouts from now on. I'm relying on you to point me to the next jump," Shiro says.

"Got it."

As with the tar pits, Red highlights the stable ledges. Shiro strains, pushing and pulling against controls that want to fly out of his hands. With the height of the mountain, he dreads the amount of ground they have to cover.  Worse still is when, at about a quarter of the way up the mountain, Shiro pulls them onto a ledge and Red shouts to him.

“Wait!”

Shiro halts the Lion, and before he can ask, he sees the reason why.  A cloud drifts by, but not of snow.  It's steam. Scalding hot steam, as well as puffs of soot that billow out from a gash cut through the side of the mountain several meters ahead, where a river of molten rock flows like an exposed blood vessel.

“This isn’t just a mountain. It’s an active volcano,” Shiro observes. “Great.”

“Ulaz wasn’t kidding about this being the only path we can take. Our other options are to fall to our deaths, or roast alive.”

Shiro sighs. “Is there anything in this country that isn’t completely hostile?”

“We can’t go back now.”

“No. We can’t.” Shiro grips the controls. “Let’s keep going, then.”

The frequency of available ledges decreases as the volcano grows impossibly steeper in their ascent. Shiro has to push harder to reach further, claws slipping even as they make it to safety. Every few jumps, Shiro stops to shake out his human hand as it cramps up with exertion in keeping the Lion from tumbling off either into an abyss or into a lake of fire. The way seems interminable, like he has been trapped doing this for vargas.

His hand through to his wrist hurts. His fingers twitch with muscle exhaustion.

“We’re not much further from the last coordinates,” Red tells him.

He can do this. “Patience…” Shiro starts, as a whisper.

“Yields focus, right?” Red says.

Shiro perks. “Right. That stuck with you, huh?”

“It’s good advice.”

Shiro smiles. He can endure the pain just a little longer.

One last leap, and the Lion pulls them up to a wide, flat terrace, where the dark clouds and steam thin out with the air. They are very high up, where Shiro can almost see as far as those dusty canyons beyond the swamp forest.

But in the other direction, there is nothing but black, craggy stone with dustings of snow. The display on the viewscreen points him dead ahead into it.

“This is it,” Red tells him.

"Are you sure this is right?"

"These are Ulaz's final coordinates exactly. Trust me."

"What are sensors picking up? Anything?"

"Just a bunch of rock and ice."

Shiro sighs. "We're missing something."

"Hang on. There's a signal coming in."

A node flashes green on the comm. Shiro taps and opens the hail. Voice only.

"Pilot of the Black Lion," the voice says. "You will disarm and come out with your hands raised."

"My name is Shiro. Am I speaking with the Blade of Marmora? Ulaz sent us," Shiro answers.

"Pilot of the Black Lion. You will disarm and come out with your hands raised."

"It's a repeating message," Red tells him.

"Alright. Then let's demonstrate our good faith. You coming?"

"Be right next to you."

Shiro inserts his fist back into the key slot next to the console. He turns his wrist the opposite way, and his hand tingles when he feels Red draining back into him. The tingling travels down his arm, through his collar, up his spine. A tug in his brain stem lets him know Red has settled back into place.

'Don't think I'll ever quite get used to this,' Shiro admits as he removes his fist.

*You're telling me.*

Shiro almost forgets to snatch up the dagger before exiting the cockpit, tucking it into the belt of his suit.

The mountain wind whips and howls as he steps down from the ramp extending from the Lion’s jaws. He squints through the angry gusts, holding up his arms in a show of surrender. Suddenly, the ground shakes, and the earth shifts beneath him. "Whoa," he blurts, wobbling when the once solid rock begins to rise before them. Shiro steps back as a doorway yawns open before them. From the stairway it conceals, two figures emerge, their faces concealed by full masks and hoods. The bright circles of the masks' goggles unsettle him.

“Pilot of the Black Lion,” one of them addresses him. He looks up at the towering beast behind him. “Incredible.”

“We mean no harm. Ulaz said we could count on you for help,” Shiro says.

“What of Ulaz? Is he with you?” the masked figure asks.

Shiro looks down to the snow-covered dirt. “He didn’t make it. He gave his life so we could make it here, and without the Empire on our tail. So to speak.”

The masked figure regards him for a tense moment.  He then says, "That you are here with the Lion proves you to be worthy of an audience. Come inside. It is cold out here.”


	9. Chapter 9

A projection of an enormous rune, the same as etched on the Marmoran dagger, greets them as the elevator doors slide open.  It looms high above the great hall, like a falling dagger, or a crooked fang.  Below its tapered point, rows of Marmoran troops with identities obscured with with hoods and masks, flank either side of the strip of carpet leading to the dais at the far end. They halt Shiro before the dais while the two other Marmorans ascend and turn to face him.

The smaller of the two address him. “I am Kolivan, leader of the Blades. This is my right hand, Antok.” Antok - the larger - folds his thick arms, and his tail swishes about by his ankles. Though he is the clear bruiser of the two, both Galra are equally intimidating.

Shiro addresses them and the court, repeating, “I am Shiro, from Terra. I was taken prisoner by the Empire and experimented on. I received this piece of technology-- the key to the Black Lion. We have come to fulfill Ulaz’s last wish by delivering the Black Lion from Zarkon’s possession. We were told that you could help us.”

"Us? " Kolivan repeats.

"Yes, my arm-," Shiro starts, but before he can finish, Antok is off the dais and upon him in a flash, his sword is at his throat. Shiro can feel warmth traveling down his arm into his hand.

‘No.  Just wait, Red. Not yet,’ Shiro tells him. His hand remains cool, but he can sense tension like embers awaiting the smallest spark to ignite.

"A slip of the tongue belies one's true intentions," Kolivan says. “We care not for your origin, outsider, but if you are a spy for the Empire, then we will not hesitate to spill your blood as well as your accomplices’. Who else is with you?"

"It wasn't a slip. If you’ll let me explain, I’m talking about Red - this arm. It is the key to the Black Lion. It doesn't move without him. Without _us_. I could not have brought the Lion here otherwise," Shiro answers.

"Ulaz did report that Zarkon possessed the Lion, but not the means to control it. Yet even under your control, it is still incomplete. Why is this?"

"I...I don't know," Shiro admits.

Antok says, "Then this is obviously a ploy. You must be an agent of the Empire!"

"I'm telling the truth! The Empire kidnapped, tortured, and experimented on me. On both of us. Why would I ever serve them?"

"Perhaps they broke you. Perhaps Zarkon's witch has corrupted you, and you are her unwitting puppet. Maybe that's who this 'Red' is after all?"

Shiro turns to him fully, clenching his fists. "You have no idea what you are talking about. Red is my friend. He _saved_ me. He is not beholden to her, nor to Zarkon, nor to anyone."

"Save for you, it seems," Antok observes.

"And that's still his choice," Shiro fires back.

*Shiro...* he hears, like a caress at the base of his skull. It soothes him, but his body remains rigid in the face of the Marmoran court.

“Kolivan,” Antok says, peering down Shiro’s belt. His other hand darts out and snatches the dagger tucked there, holding it up for the court to see.

*No!* Red says, and the arm throbs, red hot. Shiro tenses, and he cannot distinguish whether he is holding Red back, or himself. “Give that back!” he says, the source of his words just as muddled.

“How have you come by one of our blades? Speak carefully,” Kolivan says.

“Ulaz gave it to us,” Shiro starts. Antok draws his blade closer to his throat.

"And what of our brother? Where is Ulaz?"

“He...He didn't make it. But he said to tell Krolia that he was sorry. There was nothing he could do.”

“You lie!” Antok says. “You must have stolen this!”

Shiro hesitates.

*I didn’t. I know I didn’t,* Red says.

‘I thought you didn’t remember?’ Shiro questions.

*You have to believe me. It belongs to me, I know it!*

“Where is Krolia?” Shiro asks. “Maybe they can straighten this out for us.”

Kolivan bows his chin. “She has not been heard from for some time.  Presumed dead.”

“Because he must have killed her and looted her corpse like a lowlife scoundrel!” Antok says.

"Antok, enough," Kolivan says, having remained as still as a statue throughout the exchange.

“Why would we even come here if we had done something like that!” Shiro shouts, no longer caring about the sword about to slice into his throat. “And why would we bring the Black Lion to you? You said that alone granted us an audience.”

Kolivan says, “And it has. But you must understand our skepticism. Our organization is founded on secrecy and trust. It is a matter of survival that we know your true intentions, Terran."

"For your survival, or mine?"

"Both."

"Then would you at least allow me to explain without a sword at my throat?"

Kolivan nods to Antok. Antok snorts like a bull and squeezes the hilt of his blade, but tears it away from Shiro’s throat. He steps back, but with the other dagger still in possession. Shiro rubs his neck as he continues, "As I said, I call him Red. He's sentient, with his own personality. Ulaz said it was someone else’s quintessence that Haggar infused with the arm. A soul. He thinks, feels, speaks.” He flexes his fist as he speaks. “In my short time knowing him, I can tell he was - is - a warrior, like you,” he says, and the fist flickers. “He also says that dagger belonged to him, before being trapped in here.”

“Impossible,” Antok insists.

Shiro ignores him, addressing Kolivan only. "Ulaz knew this, and he trusted us. He believed in us. Why do you think he gave us the dagger, the Lion, and the coordinates that led us here?”

“Ulaz was always reckless. Idealism frequently clouded his judgement. That he entrusted something as important as the Black Lion to the care of a Terran proves his faults,” Kolivan says. “But he _was_ loyal. And I do acknowledge, and even admire your determination in seeing his final wishes through.”

“Then are we welcome here or not?”

Kolivan, and the court, fall into an unsettling quiet. He then says, “This Red of yours claims the blade belongs to him.”

“Yes.”

“Can he prove it?”

“Kolivan?” Antok questions. “You don’t actually believe this obvious lie? How could what he describes even be possible?”

“There is only one way to know whether he speaks the truth. We will allow the Trials of Marmora to determine our answer.”

"But he is not Galra!" Antok barks.

Kolivan tilts his chin. "We shall see. Return the dagger to him."

“But-,”

“I will not ask again, Antok.”

Antok radiates his irritation as he thrusts the dagger hilt back into Red’s palm. Shiro grips it, saying, “What do we have to do?”

"If your 'Red' exists as you claim, and he is indeed the rightful owner of that dagger, then he must prove it. If you seek knowledge, then know that the Trials end in only one of two ways: knowledge, or death."

*Death?* Red repeats. *Shiro, wait. Are you sure?*

'Aren't you?'

*You don't have to give your life for this. For me.*

"Well, Shiro? Do you accept the challenge?” Kolivan demands.

'You gave me my life back, Red. You chose to help me. Now, it's my choice to help you. The least I can do is to try and help you remember what the Empire stole from you. If this is what I have to do to convince these Galra to help you, then I will survive anything.  Can I count on you?'

*Shiro...yes. I'm by your side.*

“We do,” Shiro answers. “If we beat these Trials of yours, then will you help us?”

“You will have all the resources we can muster, should you survive,” Kolivan says. “But first, you must change clothes.”

"Then lead on," Shiro says to Antok.

He can sense the sneer on Antok's face behind his mask, but without another word leads them from the court.

 

* * *

 

Shiro trades his suit for a Marmoran one, and it's nearly identical to the ones the other warriors wear. The armor about his chest and waist is thin but hardy as though a carapace, with skin-tight material covering him from his feet up to his neck. Like the suit he picked up from the Black Lion, however, it fits comfortably, and releases the heat from his skin rather than suffocating him with it. The difference between his suit and the others, however, are the odd nodes and bright violet stripes woven into it, though he suspects they are not merely for decoration.

His suspicions are confirmed when Red speaks up, saying, *This suit. It’s giving off some kind of interference, like it’s...itchy? That’s the best way I know how to describe it.”

‘Can you manage?’ Shiro asks as two Blades escort him down a long hall, and towards a large double door.

*Yes, but It’s distracting.*

The double doors part. Shiro’s breath catches, and his brow grows clammy.

*Shiro?*

He faces a large arena.  She shuts his eyes on reflex-- whether to keep the panic from seeping in, or from exploding out.  There are no packed bleachers, no shrieking crowds to entertain, but an inexplicable rush of dread crushes at his chest.

*Hey, you alright? Your pulse just spiked, and the interference is getting worse.*

‘Yeah. Let’s do this,’ Shiro says, forcing down the terror thrashing inside him as he crosses the stage and turns about. With dagger in hand, he closes his eyes, and steadies his breathing. From the floor, a masked Blade rises from a trap door opposite of him, gripping a sword in hand. He stands between him and the only exit.

Red twitches, his grip tightening around the short dagger nestled in his palm.

*Okay, this is a little more than irritating. The suit is pulling from your brainwaves like a sponge, and it’s messing with our connection.*

Kolivan’s voice booms from a speaker. “Knowledge or death. Are you ready, Shiro?”

*Maybe we should call this off.*

Shiro huffs. ‘A little too late now.’ He steels himself, then falls into a sparring stance, the dagger raised out in front of him.  He can do this.  “Ready,” he says, aloud. To Red, ‘I can hold him off while you figure out a way around the suit.’

*It’s not that simple. They could kill us, remember? We should call this off. We can find another way.*

‘Or this might be the closest we ever get to finding you some answers. Just trust me, Red, like I trust you.’

Kolivan blares, “Begin!”

The Blade before him lunges, and with a dashing leap comes down with astonishing grace. Metal scrapes as the sword knocks the dagger aside, but Shiro pivots so the Blade can sail past him. Edges clash and clang as he and Red deflect a flurry of fast and hard slashes. Even with his conditioning, Shiro struggles to keep distance between their opponent, and his breath begins to labor with the exertion.  He gets an opening when the Blade raises his arm and slashes downward. Shiro shoots his left hand up to hold his opponent’s wrist while he drives his other elbow into his solar plexus. The Blade staggers backward, and Shiro takes the brief pause to switch the dagger from his right to his left hand. ‘This way of fighting-,’ he starts to think, leaping back to avoid a hard kick to his own gut. ‘It’s so familiar.’

Shiro slices his right hand outward, hoping to activate the blade of his hand in order to give him the slightest advantage.

But instead of activating, Red suddenly tightens up. The fingers cramp, and his wrist locks up. ‘Red!’ Shiro thinks, straining. ‘What-?’ The Blade takes full advantage as Shiro cries out, striking his shoulder with his sword’s pommel, then swiping the dagger out from his loosened grip.  Pain erupts at his shoulder where the Blade struck him. He braces for a fatal strike, but it never comes.

Instead, the Blade straightens from his stance. “Give up the blade, and the pain will cease.”

Shiro jerks his head ‘no’.

The Blade, then, pivots toward the large door. “You are not meant to go through that door,” he says. He walks back to his original place and raises his sword.

Shiro’s heart lurches again as he struggles to decipher the meaning. Not meant to go through that door? He’s not meant to leave? Is this his fate? Always trapped, always fighting?

His pulse spikes again, pounding beneath his chin.

“Pick up the dagger and take your place,” Kolivan orders.

While Shiro’s dread resurfaces with a vengeance, Red relaxes in contrast, and control of the limb returns to Shiro. He does as told, scooping up the dagger with his right hand and coming back to face his opponent. ‘What was that about?’ he grills. ‘Can you really go through with this?’

*Yeah. I’m sorry. I can do this.*

A hole appears in the floor, and another Blade rises from it to join their brother-in-arms.

“What is this? Seems a little unfair,” Shiro says.

“Begin!” shouts Kolivan.

Shiro has to redouble his effort as two swords come crashing down over him. The blades glance off the dagger, but return like lightning, colliding again and again. Shiro’s strains as the shock of the blows travels up through Red up to his injured shoulder. His feet are quick, however, and he ducks between slashes as much as he can parry them.

‘I could use a shield right about now,’ Shiro thinks.

Red’s circuitry pulses, but the intensity is uneven, and the light erratic. The shield flickers for a moment, then again. Shiro raises Red to block an incoming slash, but the blade sails through the barrier as if it were a mere hologram. Red’s armor catches the blade with a shrill scrape of metal. The Marmoran Blade pins the arm to Shiro’s chest, so he can do little to stop the hard kick from the other Blade. The heel of her foot digs squarely into his chest, and the force throws him like a ragdoll, and the dagger in his hand clatters away out of reach.

“Give up the blade, and the pain will cease,” the Blade tells him.

His lungs inflate with a gasp. He coughs out, “No. Not a chance.”

Without having to be instructed, Shiro rolls to his feet and fetches the dagger once again. His chest throbs along with his shoulder, but he can still breathe in deeply-- bruised ribs, not broken.

A third hooded Blade rises from the floor and joins their comrades in the melee.

It’s a similar result. They thrash him. The suit absorbs much of the shock of their hits, but their blows to his gut and face still feel like charges from a bull. His ribs do fracture bit by bit, and he can feel each crack with his every ragged breath.

Red still refuses to cooperate, having gone silent. He can feel him lock up whenever he has thoughts of activating his hand or shield.  Shiro tells him, ‘I think I know what the problem is, and it’s not physical. You psyched yourself out.’

Weakly, Red answers, *I swear. It’s this suit. But maybe...maybe this was a mistake, okay? You don't have to...keep doing this.*

'Heh, little late to say that now, don't you think?'

*We can give up the knife, like they said.*

Shiro redoubles his grip on the blade. 'I won't do that.’

*It's not that important anymore, okay?*

‘It is to you.’

Three swords strike out at him at once. He knocks back two, barely, but the the third bites into his thigh. He cries out, and continues to groan even as the suit works to seal the wound. It staunches the bleeding, but does nothing for the pain.

*Shiro!*

He falls to his knee, Red's voice fading like a shout down a well. The next time he opens his eyes, he forgets to breathe.

There, standing over him, the shaggy-haired, violet-eyed warrior. The lights cast a blinding halo, and are still so bright as to obscure the rest of his face. Unlike before, however, their audience has gone deathly silent, and he can make out a red jacket with its two golden stripes over its breast. He knows that jacket.

It can't be real, but joy bursts like fireworks in Shiro's chest, cancelling out the pain throbbing throughout his beaten body. He stands, stumbling forward with an all-consuming need to embrace the man before him.

He's shocked, then, when he is pushed away.

Cruel words accost him. "Why did you leave?”

“What?” Shiro answers dumbly.

“Don't you realize all you've done is abandon the people who care about you, all because you had to be selfish?"

"Stop," Shiro breathes, clapping his hands over his ears. He knows that voice.

"You should have appreciated what you had. Held on to what was right in front of you."

"I do!"

"You said you'd be there to watch my back!"

His breath catches. More than the cuts, or the bruises blooming across his skin, the words penetrate him deep and coldly, as well as any sword.

"Is this what you want to do? Risk your life for the ghost of another? Why don't you just give up?"

"You know why," Shiro answers, harshly. "Because I can't quit. I can't just lay down and die. *You* showed me that."

"And you left me all alone."

Suddenly, all Shiro can see now is the back of that jacket, retreating towards the door.

"Wait! Wait!" Shiro cries out, stumbling forward. He falls to his hands and knees when the pain in his muscles comes back with a vengeance. It consumes him like a fire. When he finally has the strength to push back onto his knees, the next thing he registers is a half-dozen Marmoran sword tips at his throat.

Red hangs limp at his side.  Shiro tries to lift him by the elbow, but struggles against low power.

'What was that?' Shiro wonders, bleary with fatigue.

Weakly, Red tells him, *The suit...I couldn't stop the surge.  I think you just had something of a seizure. Your brain activity was all over the place.*

A warrior says, "Give up the blade.”

Shiro looks down to the dagger still clutched in his hand. Red’s hand.

"No," Shiro answers, staggering back up to his feet.

Red pleads, *Just give them the knife. It’s okay. It doesn’t matter anymore!*

Shiro raises his voice, drowning out Red’s plea in his mind. "The blade belongs to him!"

Kolivan speaks. “There is no point in a reset. You will die here, Shiro.”

“I won’t...I won’t leave you behind anymore.”

*What?*

He sways. He’s so tired. His bones ache. His cheek swells from where the hard knuckles of a Blade had collided with it. But a heat, a fire churns deep in his core. With Red, he holds out the dagger.

The flurry of swords come at him. He deflects one, but another bites into his thigh. His beaten body screams as he slashes out, yet another edge lacerates his arm. He pivots, blocking one arm, but doesn’t see the sword that flies up and scores up his back.

A leg catches behind him, and he’s forced down to his knee. His vision clouds as a Blade pulls on his aggravated shoulder. What was the lesson he was missing from all this? What knowledge did he need to overcome this brutal torture? He glances up as a Blade raises his sword, intent on opening up his throat.

The fire in his core surges. He felt it before, with Sendak. His voice, but not his words, burst from his throat. “Just take the knife, okay?”

The Blades that surround him pause their motions.

“It doesn’t matter who I was! I know who I _am_. I am the key to the Black Lion, and Shiro is my friend.  He is the one I trust with it.  He's the _only_ one I trust!" 

The ground begins to quake. Rock crumbles from the high cavern ceiling.

Using his voice, Red continues, “ You say your organization is built on trust, don’t you?  If there is one thing you can trust, it's that I will stay by his side, no matter what! So get your hands off of him. If this Trial has to end with death, then so be it!’

The dagger flashes. It morphs, and the light fades when its metal lengthens into a sword.  Shiro surges, and it's not just his body anymore that throws off the Blade holding him down.   The rest of the warrior retreat from him in shock, but he overcomes them in a whirling dance of precision slashes that part them of their own swords.  They each clatter to the cold floor, one by one.

He can’t believe it. The pain screaming throughout his body makes him dizzy, but the rush of victory gives him a second wind.  He has little time to marvel at the unlocked sword in Red's furious, pulsing palm when another thunderous quake rattles through the chamber.  The exit doors peel open, and Antok rushes in.

“Call off your beast!” he barks.

“What?”

Kolivan follows in behind.  They all pitch and roll when another explosion rips through the rock. “The Lion is attacking us,” he says. “Command it to cease! Now!”

Shiro growls, “Weren’t you just listening? No one _commands_ the Black Lion. Let us through, then.”

He pushes past Kolivan and Antok, limping and stumbling, swaying and rocking. He drags his worn body towards the exit, past the bevy of other Blades. None make any move to stop nor block him as he trudges through to the grand hall, and on towards the elevator. Instead, they follow him, with Kolivan and Antok close behind.

The doorway to the icy outdoors rises. He pulls himself up the stairs, halfway with his hands, the wounds at his shoulder and thigh screaming by the time he feels the harsh mountain wind sting his cheeks. The buzz of a laser carving through rock gets his attention, spurring him into a run. He looks up, and his face alights with wonder.

‘Red!' he starts, huffing as delight and wonder crash together within him.  'I wish you could see this!’

*It’s flying, isn’t it?*

“Flying!” Shiro shouts. He collapses to his knees as the Lion hurdles past overhead, the red stubs on its back now having sprouted into hulking red wings. The thrusters burst, propelling it through the sky faster than any rocket Shiro had ever seen.  The Lion roars and makes a final loop before swooping in descent. The ground shakes, and snow and dust plumes billow out from under its paws as it lands.  It bows its head, and the sword drops from Shiro’s hand into the snow, retracting back into its dagger shape. With Red, he reaches out and touches his palm to the Lion’s wide chin.

*It knew we were in danger,* Red surmises.

“We’re okay,” he assures it. “We’re okay.” Red concurs with a thrum, and a soothing warmth creeps up his throbbing shoulder.

Behind them, Antok says, “Forgive me for doubting you, Terran.”

“You mean ‘us’,” Shiro corrects.

Kolivan says, “Indeed. It seems you spoke true of your companion, the one who inhabits your arm. He activated the blade, and proved his claim. This would only be possible if he were Galran after all.”

The Lion pushes back to rest on its haunches.  Shiro pushes himself to his feet, grunting as the motion triggers bolts of pain.  “Wish we could have just had the benefit of the doubt in the first place.” 

“Yet now, there can be no doubt. Your feats speak for themselves.  You are worthy. Both of you,” Kolivan says.

Shiro turns. “Are you saying that we have earned your trust?”

Kolivan’s mask dematerializes, revealing his true face: narrow, yellow eyes and pale cheeks, with a dark patch below his bottom lip, and maroon striping over his brow. He kneels, saying, “You have earned our trust and our friendship. It would be our honor to have you as our ally.”

“Thank you,” Shiro says, but stumbles when pain lances through him once more.

“We must get you medical attention,” Kolivan orders, standing. “Come. Once your wounds are treated, we will discuss our friendship in further detail.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for some delay here...! Longish chapter plus mild illness = sloooowdowns
> 
> Hope you all are still enjoying this


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I've reached the point in the writing process where even though I have been following a basic outline, I'm feeling a little unsure, but hope it has been a good read so far at least. I'm doing my best to keep to a weekly publish schedule but upcoming holidays might throw me off. Thank you for your patience!

The Blades drag him back down into their base, one soldier under each of his arms. His right shoulder and his ribs ache with each step, but his legs no longer have the strength to carry him. When they finally stop, his skin burns with irritation as the Marmoran suit peels off of him like a tacky bandage, and his open wounds stinging even worse than when they were freshly received. He only grunts with discomfort, however, too exhausted to vocalize further-- much less resist as the Blades herd him into an upright pod and shut him inside.

He is only capable of one singular thought: 'You did good. You did good. You did good...'

He repeats it in his mind until a soothing warmth envelopes him, and persuades him to shut his eyes.

The pod pops open. Cold air rushes in. He shivers, jolting awake. He could not have closed his eyes for more than a few ticks. He remains still, waiting for his brain to catch up with the throb and sting of his wounds.

*Hey,* Red greets, like a comforting hand on his shoulder.

His voice reminds him to breathe. 'Hey.'

It also persuades him to risk leaning his body weight forward to look around outside the pod. A medical bay. Monitoring stations blink and flicker in a mosaic of nominal readouts. A exam table rests in the center. Not another soul stirs.

A shiver runs through Shiro again as he steps out onto the cold floor of the medical bay, naked and bare.

'How long have I been asleep?'

*About a day.*

‘You’re joking.’ Shiro marvels at himself, touching his ribs and once-sliced open skin, but there are no more cuts, no more bruises. None whatsoever. He feels good. Great, even.

*You passed out pretty hard.*

‘Guess so.’

His stomach is a different story. It rumbles and quakes, complaining around its emptiness, but he takes it as another reassuring sign for his general health. As he runs his fingers over his chest and the bridge of his nose, there still remains many of the rough patches and raised skin he picked up since his capture. Only the most recent wounds have been fully repaired.

'Guess I can’t expect a Galran healing pod to help with my scars. Nor hunger for that matter.'

*I doubt they're calibrated for Terran physiology anyway.*

'Fair point.'

He jumps when the bay door splits open, and a Blade enters. Without a word she tosses him a towel, and beckons him to follow out of the bay.

She leads him to a stall and gestures inside. He spares no hesitation when he sees a shower head, setting aside the towel on a short bench just outside before rushing inside. The flow of hot water starts the moment the stall door closes, the massage of it and the ensuing steam absolute heaven on his knotted muscles. He leans, pressing his mended shoulder into the cool tile. Several dobashes pass before he finally moves to scrub himself.

Upon his exit on a cloud of steam, he finds his towel folded and resting atop his Black Lion suit-- helmet perched on the breastplate, vambraces, gloves, and leggings aside it, boots underneath. Cradled on the gloves and vambraces: the Marmoran dagger.

Red's dagger.

As he runs the towel through his damp hair, a swell of pride infects him. It doubles when he slips on the suit with peace of mind, as if it truly belonged to him, and not to a mad emperor, or a dead king.

The next brush with heaven arrives when the Blades serve him a portion of cured meat and pickled vegetables, with a cup of weak tea. To his empty stomach, it is a king’s feast. After a single bite, when the salt hits his tongue, he gives up on any pretense of restraint as he gobbles the food down.

Healed, washed, and fed to satisfaction, he could not remember the last time his basic needs had been so thoroughly met. Since being safe within the Garrison, he figures, a realization that comes with a long sigh as he looks upon his empty dishes. Galran architecture seemed so stark in comparison, and the mess hall he sits in now surrounds him in silence, rather than the boisterous din of spirited conversations. There were no officers ribbing one another, no cadets bragging to one another about their latest records. At least with that dull noise, he could pretend he wasn’t so lonely.

He feels Red nudge him in the base of his skull before he hears him: *Glad you're feeling better.*

Shiro smiles. 'Why wouldn't I be?'

*Well, about yesterday...* Red trails off.

'Hey, we got through it. You got us through it.'

*Because I'm Galra, Shiro.*

Shiro pauses as he draws a sip from his half-finished tea.

'So?'

*Doesn't that bother you?*

'No.'

*The Empire captured and tortured you. Being attached to a Galra doesn't concern you?*

'You're not the Galra who captured and tortured me. Quite the opposite, actually.'

*I guess not. But still...how can you still trust me? Like it’s no big deal?*

Shiro sets his tea cup back down on the table. 'How could I not? Who stood up for me me against Sendak when they hardly knew me? Who, just yesterday, said they trusted me, and no one else? Was that a lie?'

*No. No, it wasn't.*

'A person isn't just a product of where they come from. It's also about what they do.' He pulls the dagger out from his belt. 'Besides, I'd be the last person to judge someone for the cards they get dealt. You have to believe that the trust goes both ways now, Red. I trust you as if you were part of my own body. I’m starting to think that the Black Lion is a reflection of that. This blade, too.’

Silence hangs in his mind. Eventually, Red tells him, *You sure are something else. I’m glad I met you, Shiro.*

Shaggy hair, red jacket. They intrude on his imagination. His heart quickens, and his throat tightens.

'Say, Red?'

*Yeah?*

'There's something else...’ A something else that distresses him, as if he were holding a box of horrors he has the desire but not the stomach to open.

*What?*

Footsteps draw his attention to the door of the mess hall. It slides open, and Kolivan appears, his mask off and his hood pulled down to drape over his shoulders. 'Later,' he thinks, setting the dagger down on the table.

Kolivan says to him, "Have you finished?"

Shiro nods to his empty bowls.

Kolivan takes a seat across from him, leaning back. "Good. Now that you have your strength back, I imagine you have quite a story to share. I would like to hear it, Shiro."

"My story?"

"Yes. How you came to be here so far away from your home, and no less holding the key to the very centerpiece of all this strife."

Shiro clears his throat. "Well, where to begin..."

He sets into his tale, beginning with his abduction from Kerberos. Next, his first memory of Haggar's lab, and when he first woke up with Red attached to him

"Hold," Kolivan says. "You do not recall your time after your capture, and before waking up in Haggar's laboratory?"

Shiro shakes his head. "None of it. Although Sendak called me 'Champion.'"

Kolivan's eyes widen. "You?" He huffs. "I see. Your survival is beginning to make more sense, then. Word of your bloodthirst has reached even our ears, Terran."

"I don't know anything about it. To me, it's as if everyone were talking about someone else."

Kolivan nods. "Very well. Continue."

Shiro goes on to give a cursory overview of his first aborted escape attempt, then his successful one with Ulaz’s help. He details finding the Black Lion, their first ride, and finally, fleeing the giant robotic beast thanks to Ulaz’s sacrifice.

“I couldn’t do anything to save him, even with the Black Lion. I am so sorry. There’s still so much I don’t understand,” Shiro says.

With a heavy frown, Kolivan says, "Do not blame yourself. He would be pleased that you carried out his wishes, and I thank you for that. Though we feel his loss deeply given how close he was to Haggar, I believe that events have transpired just as they were meant to.”

“How do you mean?”

“Let me be honest with you. I was quite astonished when our scouts first spotted your crossing of the tar pits. When you landed the Black Lion on our doorstep, I thought Ulaz, or at least one of our own, had accomplished an impossible feat. But when I saw it was a Terran, I...I am still getting my head around it."

Shiro hesitates. "I see."

"Do not misunderstand. I am humbled, Shiro. That is what I am trying to say. I am not one to take things based on faith. I must evaluate facts over feelings. However, I cannot deny how auspicious your presence is, as though the universe has given us an answer to our plight.”

Shiro blinks, taken aback. “If that was the case, then why were you so adverse from the start?”

“I regret having to test you in Trials-- if a Terran was to be the answer to our woes, then I had to be sure your arrival was no fluke and no accident. And as you could tell, not everyone shares my point of view. Not every Blade can grasp the bigger picture."

"And what is this 'bigger picture'?"

“Princess Allura would be very interested to know the Black Lion is not only no longer in Zarkon’s possession, but not even in a Galra’s.”

"What does Princess Allura have to do with this?"

"Ever since Alfor passed, and the Emperor fell deeper into his hunger for power, we have been trying to convince the Princess of our mutual goals. She, however, has rejected our every correspondence and envoy. She simply does not trust us, for we are Galra. She may never forgive the Emperor’s betrayal of Alfor’s trust."

"You want to negotiate an alliance with Altea," Shiro surmises.

Kolivan shuts his eyes, bowing his chin. "We are very, very good at what we do, Shiro. It is how we have survived for this long. But we are little more than a rogue band without support. A thorn that wishes it were a lance in Zarkon's side."

"I see. Then what are you proposing?"

"Take the Black Lion to Altea, and convince Allura of our friendship. Since you are Terran, she may be more receptive to your words than to ours. With the Kingdom’s resources, and our intelligence, we can bring down the Empire. Besides, it is too risky for us to have the Black Lion remain here, where it could be spotted by imperial scouts even in this remote place.”

Shiro mulls this over. He leans forward, saying, “If I agree to this, then I would like something in return. A request.”

“Name it.”

“There were two other crewmen with me when I was captured at Kerberos. I need to know where they are, and whether they can be rescued.”

Kolivan puts a knuckle to his chin, pursing his lips in thought. “Even with the loss of Ulaz, we still have a few moles left within imperial high command. Furnish me with basic descriptions of your Terran friends, and I will contact my people as soon as possible. We will get you this information. Anything else?”

*Ask him about Krolia,* Red prompts, and Shiro’s gaze drifts down the dagger resting on the table. He hesitates. That vague dread eats at him, but he finds the words. “About his dagger. Who is Krolia?” he asks.

“Krolia is - or perhaps was - a very skilled pilot. She often tested Diba-tech’s prototype birds, which placed her in a strategic spot for the Blades. She was an outstanding operative. The greatest thing about her is she never let gravity nor convention stop her. She took a Terran husband, you know.”

Shiro perks up at this. “Really?”

“Yes. On a test flight, her ship malfunctioned and crashed inside Terran borders. He was the one who found and pulled her from the wreckage. She planned to stay in Terra with him, in fact, until we learned Alfor had grown ill, and she decided to return to duty.”

Shiro notices Kolivan eyeing Red with unusual interest, as if he were speaking to his limb rather than to Shiro.

“Do you know why Ulaz mentioned her?” Shiro asks, his nerves drawn tight as bowstring.

Kolivan’s lip twitches before he says, “Simple. That blade was hers.”

Shiro suspected as much, and it made his next question unavoidable: “How can the blade both belong to her, and also to Red?”

“Also simple. Our blades may be passed between family.”

*Family?* Red questions, the joints of the limb seizing up. *She’s my family?*

“You said she was MIA?” Shiro asks, fighting down a wince at the discomfort Red was projecting.

“Yes. She allowed a personal concern interfere with her duty. She went radio silent, and has not reported in for some time.”

“Damn.” Red relaxes, but remains silent, much to Shiro’s consternation.

Kolivan’s hardened expression falters, his severe gaze softening. “If by some miracle we do hear from her, I promise you and your ‘Red’ will be among the first to know.”

Shiro says, “Thank you, Kolivan.”

“Well? Do we have an agreement, then?”

‘You okay, Red?’ Shiro prods.

*No. Not really.*

‘What do you think?’

*You’re asking me?*

‘Yes? Your opinion matters to me.’

*What’s it matter? It’s not like I really have a choice. I’ll follow wherever you lead.* Red tightens up his joints again, making Shiro wince.

‘Red, take it easy.’

*’Take it easy'?  Take it easy after learning I have family out there? That the only person who might give me _any_ clue as to who I am might very well be dead?*

Shiro huffs. ‘We don’t know that for sure.’

His joints loosen somewhat, and his thoughts turn back to Kolivan when the latter clears his throat.

"Forgive me,” Shiro tells him. “I'm asking Red as we speak. It’s kind of a telepathic thing, for lack of a better term, but he can hear us speaking just fine. Learning about Krolia has been a shock.”

“I imagine it would be. It’s barbaric what Haggar is capable of. And as for Krolia, I would not envy her if she knew what had become of her family.”

Shiro can only agree. “Zarkon and the Empire’s crimes have to be stopped.  There’s no choice to be had here. Red and I in the middle of all this whether we like it or not. As far as I’m concerned, I'm ready to do whatever it takes.  I'll convince Allura to help us."

“Excellent. Then I recommend that you stay and recover for one final night with us, and leave for Altea at dawn,” Kolivan says, rising to his feet. “In the meantime, let us begin the search for your Terran friends.”

“Okay, but-,” Shiro starts.

“Yes?”

“I’d prefer to spend the night in the Black Lion. Not that I expect your accommodations to be lacking, I just...I want Red to be comfortable, too.”

Kolivan quirks a brow, but says, “You’ll have no argument from me. Do as you wish.”

Red pipes up. *It’s no trouble to stay inside this arm, you know.*

‘Yeah, but you seem happier when you’re part of the Lion. I want that for you.’

*Shiro…* Red starts, but he doesn’t argue further.

“If I may make an observation,” Kolivan says, looking between Shiro and his arm. “With your performance in the Trials, you two seem more than just attached, if you’ll pardon my choice of word. You care for each other a great deal.”

“Yeah,” Shiro admits. “I can’t really explain it. I had never met a Galra in my life before my abduction, but sometimes I feel like I’ve known Red for ages.”

“Shiro, perhaps the answers you seek are closer than you think. So close, that it’s impossible for you to see the greater whole. Like being too close to a mountain and therefore unable to appreciate its entirety.”

“If that’s true, then what do you suggest?”

“The only thing that will do.  You find some distance.”

With that, Kolivan scoops up his empty dishes. He carries them away, returning him to silence.

 

* * *

 

Shiro's eyes stay wide, even in the too bright lights. Cheers from the crowd blow down from the stands, but the only sound he hears is the ragged breathing of the man pinned beneath his sword.

He has his opponent down. Sword crosses dagger. Beneath them, the shaggy-haired man grunts, struggles to keep the sword from his neck. The only thing left is to finish them off, and he survives for another day. One more kill, one more day.

Then, his opponent’s lips move.

"I love you."

Shiro bolts awake, his heart racing.  He hisses when the seam between himself and Red burns, like contact with a hot plate.  Yet when he presses his fingers to the flesh and steel, it feels normal, if a little cold.

'Red?' Shiro whispers in his mind on reflex. There is no response, because of course there isn’t. Restless, he pulls himself out of bed, taking the bed sheet with him. With shambling steps, he falls against the door jamb, wrapping himself up like a caterpillar before making the rest of the journey to the cockpit of the Black Lion.

The console is dark, idle, as silent as the mountain snowfall outside. He plops into the pilot seat, and immediately regrets not bringing a pillow.

A point of light on the console flickers on. "Shiro?" Red calls.

"I'm here, Red,” Shiro answers.

"Can't sleep?"

"Yeah." He slumps back, settling into his ball of sheets until he is somewhat comfortable. "Nightmare."

"Sing you a lullaby?"

Shiro scoffs, smiling. "I'm sure your robo-voice would make it very soothing."

"So don't tempt me."

Shiro keeps smiling as he shuts his eyes, and the very feeling of being surrounded by the Black Lion, by Red, brings him a strange bit of comfort after his harrowing vision.

The snow continues to fall.  Flakes pepper, melt, and vanish off the viewscreen.

"You know the cadet I was telling you about? The one you remind me of?" Shiro says.

"Yeah?"

"I trust him with my life, too. And I think...I think that's why we have this bond, Red. Because I've come to trust you with my life, too."

"This cadet...he was that special to you?"

Shiro admits, "Very special. I don't think I really appreciated it enough. Now he’s so far away, and I might never see him again."

"To quote a special friend of my own: you don’t know that for sure."

Shiro chuckles, and it turns into a yawn as his eyes droop. Tucked in the warmth of his sheets, sleep begins to creep back over him. "Thanks. Somehow, I believe it more when I hear you say it." He pulls his legs up and, even though his pose is awkward against the hard angles of the pilot seat, dozes as if he were resting on a cloud.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not really precise with how the paladin suit fits together, so I hope you'll excuse some liberties I've taken w/ that
> 
> I appreciate all the feedback so far!


	11. Chapter 11

A crisp mountain breeze teases through Shiro’s bangs. He inhales as much as he can of the thinner air, seizing on this patch of serenity before casting off on the journey ahead. The dark plumes of volcanic gas from the mountain have dwindled, lending to a sky that’s clear as a bell, an air that glitters with diamond dust. Combined with the solemn quiet, it seems the mountain decided to sleep in past dawn.

There was no need to extract Red back out from the Lion’s systems, so Shiro stands alone, his mind clear and silent for the first time since waking up in that grim Diba-tech lab. The solitude of his inner world, the single voice of his own thoughts, seems more and more alien to him the longer Red inhabits him. He thinks perhaps he should be alarmed by this development, but finds he doesn’t miss it. The silence. He knows what it had been like before when he had no one but himself to live with.

If he were being honest, his life consisted of rarely anything else but planning, strategizing, going over his next moves, whether it was a new training sim, an academic presentation to his superiors, or a difficult conversation with Adam. _Adam._ Frosty breath puffs from his lips as he sighs at the memory of his face, downturn with a disappointment no word nor kiss could heal.

He glances up to the Black Lion, resting on its haunches just behind him. He realizes that Adam both loved and loathed a quality in him that was as embedded as his own DNA: he could not fail. He would not fail, no matter what he set his mind to. He got so good at soaring to new heights, but he was just as good at leaving people behind, wasn’t he? He couldn’t stop himself, could he? The people he loves suffer his absence, yet he still could not look down; he still would not look back. How could he explain - while still sounding fit for duty - that it was a matter of survival? That the did not care about breaking records nor making history, as much as the feeling of being alive? That for him, to stop was to die?

The familiar barbs of self-doubt and second-guessing sting him, polluting his clarity and inner peace with terrible efficiency. He takes in another long breath, sucking in as much oxygen as he can. _Patience yields focus._ It still feels like bitter medicine he has to force down his own throat at times, but he has grown used to it, and the benefits come to him more quickly.

_Patience yields focus._ The poison subsides-- though it never quite disappears.

The hushed ambience of the sleeping mountain breaks when the ground shifts, and the gate of the Blades’ base rises out from the rock. Shiro props his helmet on his hip as Kolivan approaches with Antok trailing at his side, the latter laden with a satchel. Their hoods are up, but masks are not.

“Good morning,” Shiro says.

The Blades nod to him. Kolivan says, “It seems you have fully recovered without issue.”

“We have.”

Kolivan says, “Good. I have made contact with my agents in high command, but it may be several quintents before they will have anything to report on the Holts. If all goes well, however, by then you should have the Princess’s might at your back.”

Shiro nods. His chin falls. “Even more reason to make sure I make a good first impression. I just hope they’re okay.”

“Allow us worry about them so that you may focus on your end of the bargain. Here,” Kolivan gestures to Antok. “Please accept this. It is a transponder calibrated with Altean frequency codes. The Empire will be listening for any unusual transmissions, so only activate it when you are near Altean territory. It will be sure to grab the right attention.”

Antok steps forward, depositing a satchel in Shiro’s free hand. His countenance is as severe as ever, but after a scrutinizing glare, he says, “I also offer my apology to you, Shiro. I did not believe Terrans to be capable of the resilience and determination I witnessed from you.” He glances to his arm. “Nor that a true Galran warrior was at your side.”

“It’s okay, Antok,” Shiro says, slinging the satchel over his shoulder. “And thanks. Red and I are a real team now. We will fulfill our promise.”

Kolivan smiles, marvelling up at the mechanical beast. “With a weapon whose shape reflects the spirit of its user,” he says. “I think I understand the Black Lion more than I first realized.”

“I’m not convinced it was meant to be a weapon. I think it was intended to be a spacecraft.”

“Perhaps, though the recent damage reports suggest that these are not mutually exclusive things.”

“Oh, right. Sorry about that, by the way.”

“All in the past. Princess Allura will no doubt be able to confirm your assumptions. Please be careful on your way, Shiro. My spies also have reason to believe that Zarkon himself is hunting you, so you must be extremely cautious.”

A cold jolt of fear races down his spine at the mention of Zarkon’s name. He says, “Will do, and thanks.”

Kolivan waves him off. Both he and Antok turn to retreat back into the base, and Shiro waves up to the Lion as the mountain seals shut behind them. The beast bends forward, swallowing Shiro up with its jaws. He sets the satchel down in the cabin, dons his helmet, and touches his fingers to the dagger sheathed at his hip. The cockpit is bright, the dash alight with various readouts, including a new one that makes him smile: thruster engine power.

“Said our goodbyes. So, how’s it feel, Red?” he asks as he takes his chair.

“Purring like a kitten. Ready when you are.”

“Good. Load up our coordinates, please.”

Red provides him with a reticule to follow on the viewscreen. Shiro grips the control sticks, but stops himself before giving any input. He taps his fingers against them instead, chewing the inside of his lip.

“How do I…?” he starts.

“Oh, great. This is just classic.”

“Hey, give me a break. It’s not like we flew giant robotic lions all the time at the Garrison.”

“Well, ignition’s got to be near you somewhere.”

Shiro huffs, and first tries rolling the sticks, then twisting them, all the while embarrassment works its way up his spine. They refuse to budge, and so does the Lion. He taps his fingers on the engine thruster display with equal success. His eyes dart and dance about the cockpit, hoping that Kolivan and the Blades won’t notice there’s a problem by the time he has this figured out.

He looks down, scanning between his legs and up just past his toes. Finally, he spots something: a raised area of the floor, where there is a pair of pedals near his feet. He does not recall them being present before.

“Of course,” he mumbles, gently testing the pedals with the balls of his foot. He applies a bit of pressure, and the Lion rumbles, lurching into motion. The smooth, glistening snow under the Lion’s feet whips up into a whirlwind as Shiro presses harder with a shot of confidence. The engine display flashes green as the boom of thrusters erupts from its wings and paws. It rises, hovering off of the ground as if the hundred tons of machinery were weightless.

“Let’s just pretend that last dobosh didn’t happen,” Shiro says.

“No problem. I’m definitely not keeping a detailed log of your every misstep and screw-up.”

“Okay, wise guy,” Shiro says, smiling. “Is this what I have to look forward to while we’re stuck together for the foreseeable future?”

“Wasn’t obvious from the start?”

“Oh yeah. Just making sure.”

Once they have some height, Shiro pulls the control sticks back and presses the pedals with all of his strength. The Lion rears, and its thrusters boom. He’s thrown back, breath knocked from him as it shoots towards the sky like a missile. He grins as wisps of snow clouds blow past, and the mountain peaks shrink beneath them.

His heart soars. “We’re flying. Actually flying!” Shiro says, and a whoop of laughter bubbles up through him. He breaches through clouds, basking in the glare of sunlight that floods the cockpit. He howls again, and again until he’s breathless. If he thought racing across the ground on four paws was the ultimate thrill, it was in this moment he realized just how small his world had truly been.

But the higher he goes, the more the Lion begins to rattle, until his console flickers. Red’s voice cuts in. “I hate to interrupt while you’re having fun, but don’t fly too high yet.”

Shiro sobers just enough to ask, “No?” He nonetheless pitches the controls down enough to level them off until the rattling stops. “Why not?”

“It’s like...it’s like a strain on me that gets worse the higher we go. Like the air is too thin for either of us, and despite me being a machine, as weird as that sounds.”

“Roger that.” A pang of disappointment sobers him further. “If the Lion can’t go any higher, then maybe this wasn’t a spaceship after all?”

“I wouldn’t rule it out just yet. There’s still some locked programming here I can’t execute.”

“Really?”

“Shiro, I honestly have no idea what the Lion’s full capabilities might be.”

Shiro considers this. He peers up through the viewscreen, and at this elevation, he can just make out the faintest speckle of stars through the radiance of daylight. Stars that seem so tantalizingly close that he could reach out and gather them in his hand. If the state of the Lion relates to their bond somehow, then what are they missing? What else was weighing them down?

He slumps, at a loss for answers. His excitement bleeds out of him like air from a punctured tire.

“We need Allura,” he says, sitting forward. “How long until we reach the border?”

“At this pace: about two vargas.”

“We’re already at a good clip. The Empire’s territory really is enormous. Can I set this to autopilot?”

“Done.”

“Great. With any luck we are high enough so that the Empire won’t be able to detect us, but have the sensors set to maximum range anyway. Hopefully, we should be able to see and avoid them before they can spot anything usual.”

“Roger that. Sensors set.”

Despite Red monitoring their surroundings, Shiro nonetheless remains glued to the sensor readouts cascading across the console. As the doboshes go by, it’s the only thing keeping him sane when he begins to feel as though they’re merely floating in suspension relative to the unchanging, endless expanse of sky and clouds. But as the streams of data scroll by, his fitful sleep from the night before threatens to catch up with him when the boredom settles into his bones.

He gazes out into the great wide open sky before him. Then, a devious smile comes to his lip

“Guess I could use the time to get in some practice,” is all the warning he gives before reaching for the control sticks.

“Practice? What practice? Whoa!”

Shiro taps the pedals and drives the sticks all the way forward. Instantly, the autopilot disengages and the Lion’s nose pitches downward, sending the beast into a steep dive.

“What are you doing!”

Shiro grins, yanking the Lion into a tight corkscrew. He ignores the nausea building in his belly as the g-forces pull and push him, finishing the maneuver with an inside loop. When he levels the Lion off, he says, “We’re in hostile territory, and I’ve never flown an advanced robotic lion before. Seems like something I have a present opportunity to remedy.”

“You’re crazy.”

“Guilty. You said you had flight programming, right? Maybe you can give me some pointers?”

A pause. Red then replies, “Yeah. Yeah, alright. I might even be able to improvise some training for you.”

“I am in your capable hands, Instructor Red. Well, hand.”

“Wow. Demerits already for that lazy pun.”

Shiro laughs as he throws the Lion into more weaves and spirals, getting as much used to the sensitivity of the controls as he can. Red provides him with feedback regarding stress on the Lion’s systems in order for Shiro to adjust his inputs. Eventually, Red figures out a way to project an overlay onto the viewscreen with reticules to act as ‘asteroids’ for Shiro to avoid. The difficulty starts off gentle enough, but soon he finds himself diving and climbing over a veritable barrage Red throws at him.

He’s breathing hard by the time the last ‘asteroid’ passes by. Nonetheless, he teases, “Come on. Got anything better than that?”

“You seriously have never flown this thing before, right? You didn’t just pretend you couldn’t find the flight controls only, oh, about an varga ago?”

“I’m flattered, but to be fair it’s all pretty intuitive, sometimes to where I feel like the Lion is anticipating me. That’s not you, is it? You’re not pranking me to make me think I’m better at this than I actually am, are you?”

“As funny as that might be, it’d counterproductive given that my fate relies on your flying as much as it does on your fighting.”

“Fair point. So? What do you think? Do I pass, Instructor Red?”

“I hereby dub thee professional pilot of a giant robot lion. Congratulations.”

Shiro chuckles. “Thanks, Red. That was fun. You came up with a great training sim.”

“No problem, Shiro.”

With the thrill of his nascent flight still thumping through him, there’s no more void in his heart, no more doubt coursing within him. He shuts his eyes. Immediately, he imagines himself curled up back in his chair under a warm blanket, surrounded by the comfort of Red’s presence.

Red is the only one who could ever keep pace.

What Shiro wouldn’t have given right then and there, just to know his face.

He stands abruptly, hands leaving the controls as if they were too hot to touch. “I’m going to stretch. Autopilot, please.”

He gives himself permission to retreat back to the main cabin, rolling his shoulders and spine. He freezes, his heart stopping when he notices the satchel missing from where he deposited it on the center table. “Quiznak,” he mutters. Several tense moments do wonders for his stress until eventually, he finds it. Cloaked in shadow under the far end of the table, and he heaves a sigh of relief as he stoops to pick it up.

“What’s wrong?” Red asks.

“Oh, nothing much, just almost lost the transponder.” He reaches inside the satchel, pulling free a mostly cylindrical device encased in a pearl white shell. At one end sprouts an antenna, and the other a small monitor.

“Definitely not adding that to the list of screw-ups. No sir.”

Shiro stops listening as he examines the device. He notes the screen is cold and blank, as is the bulb on the end of the antenna. “Great. Another piece of advanced tech, and once again I’m stumped by how it works.” He tilts it until he determines that device itself seems utterly dead. “Hope I didn’t break it.”

He grasps the monitor, and it rotates in its joint with a click. Curious, he continues to twist it until he hears a final click. Suddenly, the device bursts to life, screen flashing, and antenna extending to double its initial length. The tip of it flashes green. The screen then declares, _SIGNAL OUTBOUND._

“Quiznak!” Shiro hisses.

“What’s that signal? Shiro, what did you do!”

“How close are we to the border?”

“We’re still about twenty doboshes out! I can’t _believe_ you!”

Shiro curses again when he tries to twist the monitor back to its original position, but it resists him, now locked into place. “I can’t turn it off!”

“Better figure out something, or that signal is going to lead the Galra straight up our tails.”

Shiro tries to snap the antenna. When that doesn’t give, he tries to snap the entire thing in half. He strains against it, and even with his Galran arm the shell around the transponder barely even bends under his full exertion. With little option left, he rips the Marmoran dagger at his belt, throws the device on the table, and stabs it. He stabs and stabs and stabs until the blade splits and crumples it like an eggshell. He doesn’t stop until sparks eject from its innards, and the screen blinks out its last throes of life.

The dagger falls to the table with a clatter as Shiro drops his head. He leans his forehead into the cool surface of the table, willing his pulse to level out. “Great,” he whispers.

“No hostile signatures in our vicinity yet. Nothing at all. Maybe we got lucky,” Red informs him.

“Lucky? No, that was yet another mistake on my rapidly growing list,” Shiro says. He straightens up, looking over the mangled heap beside him. “That was our one way to reach out to the Alteans. Guess we’ll just have to improvise from here on out.”

“Hey, Shiro? Come back to the cockpit.”

Fearing the worst, Shiro snatches the dagger back up and darts from the cabin. “Why? Did the Galra find us?”

“No. Nothing like that. Just thought you might want to see this,” Red tells him as he enters the cockpit. “Left side.”

Shiro steps over to the left and peers out the window. He squints when a break in the clouds passes beneath them, his gaze carrying across a hilly, tree-dotted landscape below. The clouds still obscure much of it as he scans up to the horizon for what Red had told him to look for. But when the clouds part further like a snowy curtain, his breath catches at the sight it reveals.

A least a kilometer in depth, and spanning about three times as many kilometers across, a huge, shadowy crater has been dug out of the earth. The dunes and ridges ripple out from the epicenter as though a great black ocean, accented with streaks of blue that fan out across the rock like veins. A large domed facility resides at the crater’s center, and countless more outposts, cranes, and elevators dot the rim.

“That’s it,” Shiro says, awed. “That’s where the comet hit, isn’t it?”

“Must be. Sensor readings of the ambient radiation matches the Lion’s. There’s a lot of it in the air here.”

“Incredible,” Shiro says. “I can’t believe I’m actually seeing it, instead of just reading about it in a history textbook. Our textbooks didn’t even have pictures. It’s even more surreal saying that while riding within the product of that event.”

“If only the Empire shared your sense of wonder. With all this power, I’m not convinced that the comet was a blessing.”

“It was neither good nor bad. Power always depends on the will and intentions of its wielder. In the right hands, it could expand our knowledge as well as protect people.”

“Are we the right hands?”

“I’d like to think so. Certainly better than Zarkon’s.”

“I think so, too. Maybe that’s why the Lion seems to like us.”

Shiro smiles. “Maybe. But if nothing else, this comet ultimately brought us together, didn’t it?”

“I think I would have liked to have met you under vastly different circumstances.”

“Completely agree.”

“With my real body, for one. I can’t remember what I even looked like.”

Shiro’s lip twitches, and his jaw sets. “I hate it. What they’ve done to you.”

“Shiro?”

That urge, that rush of desire to know Red’s face rushes back into his very blood. He clenches and relaxes his fists.

“There has to be a way to fix it, don’t you think? When this is over.”

“Fix what?”

“The Empire must have records. What if your body is still out there somewhere?”

“Shiro, I-...I wouldn’t get your hopes up. Believe me, I've thought about it, but mine are in the gutter.”

“Why? Why wouldn’t you want to exhaust every avenue?”

“Because think about it. Why would Haggar keep my body if she only wanted to use my quintessence?  It's like keeping the rind after you've squeezed out an orange.  It makes no sense.”

Shiro scoffs, but struggles to come up with a counterpoint. “I don’t know. But how can we know for sure she didn’t save it until we look?”

“I appreciate it, Shiro. I do. But we should probably just focus on our immediate concerns. Surviving until we get to Altea, for one. Ten doboshes, by the way.”

Shiro huffs, unsure yet if he can let the matter go. He plops back down into the pilot’s chair and drums his fingers on his knee, chewing his lip. “Okay. Fine. Ten doboshes. Roger that."

They pass over the crater in silence. His gaze is drawn to the domed facility within the center, until a carpet of stratus clouds rolls in underneath them, obscuring the view of the scarred landscape below.

“Five doboshes,” Red informs him.

Suddenly, a loud bang thunders through the cockpit. The cockpit lurches, throwing Shiro forward. Violent tremors wrack the Lion, rattling through his head and stomach. “Red? What was-”

Another bang sounds, and another shockwave tosses him. “What was that!” he yells.

“I think our luck’s run out. We’re under attack!” Red tells him. The air explodes with a ball of fire just off of the right side of the viewscreen. Shiro flinches, seizing the control sticks and jerking them to swerve. Another fireball bursts, then another. Shiro weaves the Lion as best as he can, but the resultant shockwaves toss them about like debri in a tornado.

“How did they avoid sensors?” Shiro asks.

“I don’t know! Sensors aren’t detecting anything!”

“Can you give me any idea what’s beneath us?”

The console flickers, projecting a display of real time footage from the Lion’s underbelly. The image zooms and refocuses, homing in on a disturbance of clouds. Shiro stomach sinks. He had assumed a carrier would be the worst of the potential obstacles. He could have handled a fully-equipped carrier. Yet what he sees instead emerge from the clouds, however, chills his blood.

It’s a capital ship to be sure, but its appearance is that of a floating fortress, black as night. It tears through the rippling clouds like a demonic specter rising from hell itself, with great sharp spires sweeping up to the sky above, and down toward the ground below. It dwarfs the Lion at least one hundred times, and that its massive form stays aloft at all is a miracle of engineering.

“How did you not detect _that?_ ” Shiro asks.

“Its hull must be made of some kind of dampening material. It’s like it doesn’t even exist according to sensors.”

Specks flicker where the fortress’ guns rotate and fire. They fire, and they fire. One burst after another, the long barrels send up shells knocking them to and fro. “Well, it exists. It definitely exists!” Shiro grits out, his human hand aching from his grip on the controls. “The range of those guns is incredible.”

“What do we do?” 

“We’re a sitting duck at this distance. We won’t make it if we try to run,” Shiro says as another shockwave slams into the Lion’s hull. “I’m going to have to descend. We need to destroy some of those cannons. Then we can make a break for it. Have lasers and jaw blade on standby, we’re going to need them.”

“Yes, sir.”

Shiro pitches forward, sending the Lion into a steep dive. He weaves, dodging between shells that scream past them. As the Lion closes the distance, fighter jets deploy from the fortress like drones from a hornet’s nest, swarming in close formation.

“Are you sure we shouldn’t just take our chances and run?” Red says.

“Fire laser!” Shiro calls. Blooms of fire light up the viewscreen as the Lion’s laser cuts through a dozen fighters. More trickle out from the fortress to replace them.  Shiro calls out for the jawblade, darting through the momentary gap in their defense. He carves through a line of cannons, cutting off their barrels, then melting the steel with another burst of laser fire.

The fortress retaliates.  A salvo of bullets strikes with full force into the Lion’s back and knocks them into a tailspin. The console flashes red, alarm and shock ringing in Shiro’s ears.

“Confirming direct hit. The Lion’s energy levels dropping!” Red says.

Shiro grunts, focusing all his strength into pulling the Lion out from its free fall. Full thrusters blast from its wings and paws, and once stabilized, he brings the Lion around to re-engage the fortress and the maelstrom of fighters swirling about its airspace like a projection of its own evil aura.

The swarm of Galran fighters, however, cease their fire. They move off their pursuit, returning to standby formation.

“Why are they falling back?” Shiro wonders aloud. His attention darts to the console when it flashes again, but this time with a green light on the comm. An incoming hail.

“Shiro,” Red says. “We have to run, _now_.  I think it’s-”

A dark voice cuts through the cockpit, and straight through Shiro’s soul like a fine-edged sword.

“Pilot of the Black Lion. I am Emperor Zarkon.”

Instantly, his heart beats a mile with every tick, and a cold sweat pools at his temples.

“I commend you for your feat in activating the Black Lion and stealing it out from under my possession. It seems you have earned my undivided attention once again, Champion. That is why I give you this courtesy of addressing you personally.”

The air pressure in the cockpit seems at the same time too thin and too suffocating. Distantly, Shiro hears Red call out to him, but all he can do is sit and listen as that voice invades and curls around his very being like a constrictor.

“But it seems you have forgotten your place, Champion. The Black Lion was never meant for a Terran. You will disarm and surrender it and the key immediately. In return, I give you my word that you will no longer be subjected to anymore cruel experiments. Your execution will be prompt, clean, and swift.”

Shiro hears his name again just before a jolt at the base of his skull kicks him back to the present. He grimaces, redoubling his grip on the control sticks, unsure whether he was keeping himself or the Lion steady.

“Well, Terran warrior? What is your reply?” Zarkon says.

Shiro gives him one. “You don’t deserve the Black Lion. It must sting to know it will never answer to you.”

A dark chuckle rumbles through the comm. “We shall see about that, Champion.”

Violet light flashes. A strange ray shoots out from the fortress, hitting the Lion and capturing it in a dispersed beam. With the cockpit awash in its violet glow, Shiro jiggles the controls and depresses the pedals by his feet. They move, but Lion no longer responds. Instead it floats up, its dead weight pulled in by the tractor beam.

“Controls are dead! What have they hit us with? Red? Red!”

Red no longer responds.

“Red? Red, are you there?” Shiro calls again, pressing every switch and button within reach. The console flickers on and off, its interface scrambled and its readouts corrupted with jagged lines. “Red!”

“Ah, you mean the key. He is the fiercest warrior I have ever laid eyes on, and his talents are wasted by the likes of you. Yet you have proven he can be tamed. Rest easy, Champion, for he will now know true glory at my side. Thank you for this one final service to your Emperor,” Zarkon says.

“No,” Shiro says, but with the Lion immobile and being drawn in towards the fortress, he can do little more than pray for a miracle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry to end on a cliffhanger but god this chapter kicked my damn ass


	12. Chapter 12

The stars answer him.

A flash of blue light streaks across the sky like a bolt of lightning, its celestial glow parting the sea of violet like a divine spear. Instantly, it destroys the tractor beam’s point of origin, and the Lion tumbles free. The interface on the dash returns to normal, and controls respond to Shiro’s touch once more. He jerks the sticks to pull the Lion out of its spin.

He comes face-to-face with an enormous pearl ship - a fortress all its own. It floats like a thundercloud, its four nacelles pulsing with the same bluish energy as its weaponry. Its center hold fires again from its forward tip, its laser cutting through another row of enemy cannons. Meanwhile, hundreds of drones disperse like speckles of starlight and engage the swarm of Galran fighters. They sky soon becomes a chaotic melee of explosions and whizzing metal.

“Shiro,” Red crackles through the comm.

Shiro snaps from the miracle ship in the sky back to the console. “Red! Are you okay? You didn’t respond!”

“Yeah, just-- that beam. That force. I couldn’t do _anything._ I couldn’t see, nor hear, nor even think. All I could do was obey.”

"It’s okay, Red. Thankfully, it looks like we have some help. Those have got to be the Alteans. Can you stay with me?"

“Yes, I think.”

The white ship fires again, but this time the remaining guns of Zarkon’s fortress rotate and return fire in a devastating broadside. Shells beat against the white ship's shields with enough power to cause its honeycomb panels to flicker in and out. Still, the barrier seems to hold as the swarm of Galran fighters break off and turn their attention to the new ship.

“Let’s lend them a hand,” Shiro pulls the Lion up, drifting and corkscrewing around explosions, rocket shells, and lasers to give chase. He calls again for the laser, and Red provides just enough to cut down a dozen fighters, causing the rest to break formation. Violence and noise rattle the cockpit as the smoke and fire clears.

"Can you open a channel to that ship?" Shiro asks.

"There's a lot of interference, so audio only. Go ahead."

"Altean ship! This is the pilot of the Black Lion. My name is Shiro, and we seek an audience with Princess Allura!"

There's no reply as more gunfire batters them and the forcefield around the Altean ship. Shiro continues to weave, gaining closer to the ship. "Altean ship! Please respond!"

Suddenly, the console flashes.

"They've sent us coordinates," Red informs him. "Landing coordinates! And for where there's a break in their shields we can fly through."

The console lights up with a scale model of the ship and it's shields. The gap in the barrier flashes red. "Got it!" Shiro says, thrusting the control sticks forward. With a burst of thrusters, the Lion rockets up and around over top of the ship. The shields close moment he threads it through the open panel.

The landing coordinates lead them towards what appears to be solid wall. A seam in the exterior appears as they approach, and lengthens with their proximity. From it, a set of bay doors split and yawn wide, and in that moment the control sticks cease responding to any input. "I'm not controlling the Lion anymore," Shiro says.

"That's because we're being locked on to and guided in."

"We assume they're friendly, but stay alert."

"Roger."

The bay doors swallow them down into a long corridor. At the far end, an additional set of heavy doors part and reveal a landing pad. The hangar they arrive in flashes with red emergency lighting, alert systems blaring. Whatever outside force has hold of the Lion sets it down like a feather on its four paws, where the beast pitches forward with its jaws open wide.

The red-washed hangar appears deserted. On full alert himself, Shiro says, "I'm taking you along with me. Ready?"

"Let's go."

With Red back in hand, Shiro descends from the Lion, trying not to feel dizzy from the high vaulted ceilings. He snaps to when, off to the side of the hangar, a set of double doors swish open. A stampede of footsteps herald an outfit of armed guards, fully garbed in masked helmets and armor. Half a dozen pour in, and Shiro raises his hands in a show of surrender. Nonetheless, he finds himself greeted by a firing line of rifle barrels.

"Please, I understand your mistrust, but we mean you no harm. We seek a friendship, actually. Let me speak with Princess Allura," Shiro says.

The guards say nothing, but the hangar doors split open again. Through them, a gentleman enters, dressed in a trim outfit of blues with white accents at his breast and gloves, and gold trimming at his waist and boots.  Shiro also makes note of the bright orange hair and mustache, and the telltale Altean markings that imbue him just under his set of crow's feet.   His brow draws up in awe as he marches over.

"It really is the Black Lion!" the Altean gentleman says. "Happy day! I didn’t think we’d ever see it again. The tides seem to finally be shifting back in our favor. The Princess will be so relieved to finally have it back!"

About to repeat himself, Shiro stops when strange, weightless sensation comes over him. It persists for a moment, then leaves him in an instant as though something just picked him up and set him down. A moment later, the red warning lights recede, and the alarm ceases. The Altean and his guards seem to visibly relax. Shiro glances about, noting the pristine ivory walls, almost jarring in contrast to the midnight schemes of Galran construction he had grown accustomed to.

“Now that we’re out of immediate danger, we can have a proper looksee,” the Altean says. His reverence converts to equal parts curiosity the moment he looks upon Shiro. "Ah-ha, and there you are! Jiro, was it?” he says as he steps in close, apprising Shiro with a crooked finger at his chin.

“Shiro, actually.”

“A Terran? You’re a Terran!” The Altean rakes his eyes over him, and Shiro flinches when suddenly, he reaches up to pinch him by the chin, pushing this way and that.

"Ow! Hey!" Shiro protests.

"My, aren't you a marvel! I don't think I've ever been this close to a Terran before, nevermind one who has up and done the highly improbable. How curious!" the Altean says, cheery. Mercifully, he releases his chin. Crossing a hand over his chest, the Altean bows. "I am Coran Heironymus Wimbleton Smythe, senior advisor to the royal family. On behalf of Altea, I thank you for delivering the crown's property back into its rightful hands. In exchange, I have no doubt we will be able to fulfill any wish you may desire.”

"Well, see, there's a complication with that," Shiro informs him, nodding to his right hand. "That's why we've come to negotiate with the Princess."

"Negotiate?" Coran parrots, his fiery brow quirking at the prosthesis in question. His eyes widen as he gasps. "King Alfor, rest your soul! What have those Galran monsters done to your work?”

*I don’t like what he’s implying,” Red needles in Shiro’s mind.

‘It’ll be okay, Red. This first impression has to go better than the Blade of Marmora.’

Just as he finishes his thought, the hangar door splits open once more. A woman enters, also suited in form-fitting whites with splashes of pink, with accents of dark blue about her shoulders and waist.  Her pure white hair is drawn up in a loose bun, revealing her pointed ears and pink Altean markings that adorn her cheeks.  Shiro has a good guess as to her identity when he spots a simple gold banded tiara crowning her forehead.  She stands by her guards and looks him over, then to the Black Lion, her mouth agape. “I-I simply could not believe it. The Black Lion is truly here. When we intercepted the Altean signal, I didn’t think this is what we would find!”

Finally, her gaze drops to Shiro. She blinks, but then gestures to herself, saying, “I am Princess Allura. And you...who _are_ you?”

“As I was explaining to mister Coran, my name is Shiro, and this,” he says, raising his right arm, “Is Red. We have taken the Black Lion from Zarkon, and on behalf of the Blade of Marmora, we seek your help and friendship in putting a stop to the Empire.”

"You're...Terran?"  Her face scrunches, gaze drifting between him and the Lion. She finally closes her eyes as though fighting off a headache. She says, “Wait a moment.  Friendship? Blade of Marmora? Forgive me, but I find this to be simply too incredible to my ears. Will you first explain to me how a Terran has come to pilot my father’s greatest achievement? And what,” she starts, crossing over to him. Her hand darts out, grasping Red and looking it over. “What unholy corruption has Zarkon subjected this to?” she spits, laced with venom.

“I believe he was just getting to that part!” Coran says.

“I’d be more than happy to explain,” Shiro says.

Allura’s lip twitches in her aggravation. “Who are you, really?” she demands. “Are you working for Zarkon? Tell me who is inhabiting this arm of yours, and why I shouldn’t have this monstrous thing cut off of you!”

Struggling to keep his voice level, Shiro answers, “No, I’m not. I was on a survey mission for the Garrison in Terra when the Empire invaded our airspace and abducted me and my crew. I’ve been running from them ever since I woke up in their laboratory. And as I said, this is Red. He’s the key to the Black Lion, and I wouldn’t be here without him.”

As he speaks, her eyes dart to the dagger at Shiro’s belt, and they widen in shock. “And just what is that?” she questions.

“It’s what it looks like. It belongs to Red.”

“He is a _Galra?_ ”

“Yes, and I trust him completely.”

*Seriously? Why did you have to tell her that?* Red admonishes.

Shiro’s brow twitches. ‘What? We can’t build trust without first laying out our cards on the table.’

Allura says, “Then that settles this. We must scour this corruption immediately. Guards, restrain it!"

*I think you played this card a bit too soon.*

"Scour? No, just-- hold on!" Shiro starts.

The guards surge forward and swarm him. Shiro jerks his shoulder out of the grip of one, but as soon as he resists, another grips him by his right arm. They twist Red behind his back, the seam of his arm tearing painfully into his shoulder socket. Red suffuses his vision, and his palm heats up.

*Getting real tired of us being manhandled wherever we go,* Red tells him.

"Is this really necessary?" Shiro grits out. "Listen to me! If you remove him, it will kill me!"

"Please, we aren't the Galra. We will take every precaution to ensure you remain unharmed," Allura says.

“No, I mean we’re bonded, more than what’s just on the surface. Forced removal will destroy my brain!”

Coran steps forward. He says, “Now wait a moment, Princess. With all due respect, perhaps we ought give him the benefit of the doubt. Given that it is Alfor’s design, he could be making things a lot more difficult for us if his intentions weren't honest.”

Allura turns to Coran, her expression full of fire. “Give him the benefit of the doubt? You mean like my father did for Zarkon?”

Coran reels at this. “No, Princess.  We must also consider that Jiro here is himself a Terran. His people have never given us any quarrel.”

“Except that they refuse to take a side,” Allura says. “They would, if they knew at all what the Galra are like. Tell me, Terran, have you considered that he, this ‘Red’, may himself be an agent of Zarkon?"

With that remark, Shiro knows it’s his own indignation he feels when he grits his teeth. A huff of irritation passes his lips. "For the last time, I am not working for Zarkon, and neither is Red. Never have been, never will. Why do I have to keep repeating myself?"

“Because the Galra are insidious creatures who will stab you in the back if it means amassing even a little bit of power," Allura says. “And what of the Black Lion? Did he also taint it with his foul quintessence? We must have you quarantined immediately. Guards, bring him."

As she turns around to lead him away, Coran says, “Princess, I sincerely believe he may be telling the truth.”

“If he is, then I will believe him once we have cleansed the Galran quintessence from my father’s work.”

The guards pull Shiro forward, but he drags his feet, saying, "You need to release me, right now. Trust me, after having carried him around in our head for these past several quintants, you really, really don't want to piss us off." Shiro blinks at his odd word choice, unsure whether it was entirely his own. His suspicion amplifies when the base of his skull thrums with Red's agitated presence.

*Okay, we’ve tried using our words. If this is the way they want it, then let’s take these guys down and make them listen to us!*

'Easy. I still think we need the softer approach. We want to make friends here,’ Shiro thinks. It almost hurts to hear his inner voice form the words, his feelings entirely out of sync with his reason. Shiro blinks again when he thinks, 'Your thoughts and my thoughts are getting really blurry, by the way.'

Allura spins around. "Is that a threat? I thought you said you meant us no harm."

Shiro answers, "We don't! It's just a fact that if you can't separate us. I’m sorry for whatever happened between Zarkon and your father. But even if you don't care about the life of one Terran, the Black Lion will be useless to you without us. And with the Blade of Marmora's help, you could end the war within a deca-phoeb."

Allura draws in close once again. She scowls, saying, "That's just the kind of thing I would expect Zarkon's thrall to say to lure me into trusting them.  But I do admit, it's like you don't even know it. You poor man.  I'm sorry, but I simply can't take your word.  Now, I ask that you come quietly."

*Alright, I've had enough.*

Shiro tenses.  'Red, wait-'

His palm flares. Suddenly, the Lion pushes up. It rolls its head back and roars, the shockwave booming through the hangar like an earthquake. It knocks Allura, Coran, and several guards onto their backsides. The guard subduing him falters, his grip loosening enough for Shiro to tear out of. He spins free, the violet color of his palm glowing almost red hot.

'We're not even in the Lion. How is it moving?' Shiro wonders.

*Our connection is always there.*

Shiro cannot disagree when it feels like threads woven through the exterior of his arm, tugging with the Lion's every motion.

"Th-the Lion!" Allura stammers, looking with equal fear between Shiro and the Lion.  The guards hesitate, battling against their own fear of the giant machine looming above them.

*See? Now they understand who they're dealing with.*

'This could have gone a lot better,' Shiro thinks. He crosses his arm in front of him. 'Shields up.'

The glow of his hand transfers to the shield at his wrist. It flashes into being, wider, and with far more radiance than he remembers. "Listen!" he calls over the top of the barrier. "For the last time, we don't want to fight you. Please, we want to work together to beat Zarkon. We have every bit of reason to want him gone as you do."

Allura bolts back onto his feet. "Then why don't you simply surrender yourself?"

Shiro frowns. “Forgive me, Princess, but I’ve had enough of this. We come here with an offer of peace, with the best help you’ll ever get in the war against Zarkon, and all we get are accusations, prejudice, and mistrust. If that’s the way it’s going to be, then Red and I will be leaving, and finding our own way to win.”

*What? What about our deal with the Marmora?*

‘Trust me. They know they can’t just let us walk,’ Shiro thinks, turning back to the Lion. ‘Deactivate shield.’ The shield blinks out as the Lion bends forward, ramp extended from its jaws.

Coran says, “Princess, he’s right. This could be victory over Zarkon we've wished so hard for.  This may be the universe's answer, delivered to us on a platter.  We cannot deny they have the respect of the Black Lion. I know that that alone would have given your father some pause.”

Shiro continues walking until his foot comes to the bottom of the ramp.

“Hold it! Come back!” Allura calls out. “Wait!”

Shiro halts, turning to his side to glance at her as she chases after him.  When she stops, she says, “Alright. Shiro, was it? I’m sorry.  I have been exceedingly hostile.  I’m not fond of these circumstances, but I do want you to stay. Please.”

“Could you call off your guards, then? I don’t like having conversations while under a barrel.”

Allura hesitates for a moment, but soon turns to nod her chin, directing the guards to retreat from the hangar.

“Thank you,” Shiro says, turning to her fully. “And look, I’m sorry, too. I know this was your father’s life work, and having a stranger suddenly show up with it at your doorstep must be a tremendous shock.”

Her severe expression softens at this, and she says, “It is. And to be honest, we are struggling in our fight. You saw it. We have hardly the resources to mount an incursion into Galran territory, much less stand up against Zarkon's fortress. Any mistake could cost us this war. Millions of Altean lives are counting on me to protect them from Zarkon.”

“Terran lives are counting on me, too. And the Galra who are resisting Zarkon as we speak.”

“This Blade of Marmora has made overtures of an alliance before,” Coran says. “Perhaps it is dire enough now that we listen to them.”

“They gave me the transponder whose signal you intercepted.   Returning the Black Lion is essentially their last attempt at a peace offering. I’m not sure what more they could do,” Shiro says.

Allura considers him, then the Lion once more.  Letting loose a heavy sigh, she then says, “Come. Let us show you to guest quarters. Take some time to recuperate. I need a moment to think about all of this. We will discuss it further before the day is out.”

“Thank you, Princess.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> edited "Gyro" to "Jiro" since the latter makes way more sense than what the Netflix subs say


	13. Chapter 13

A pair of Altean guards escort Shiro to guest quarters. He cannot decide whether the light security is another test of his character, or whether the Princess has truly given him the benefit of the doubt.

Perhaps it was merely a show of good faith by the Princess. He was no longer among the Empire, after all.

Whatever the case, after leading him through a long corridor, the guards stop and gesture him inside. When the door slides shut behind him, he makes note of amenities that are similar to the Lion’s in the vein of function over style. The provided bunk sits nestled in a cubby scooped out from the wall, an a simple metal desk and stool stands across from it. Along the far wall is an open door to a tiny washroom. Save for the twin sconces on opposite walls, the decor is nonexistent. It's basic. It's bare.

And it's perfect. The Altean castle was still, after all, a battleship. For a moment, Shiro can almost imagine himself back at the Garrison, returning to the barracks to sleep like the dead after a long day of drills. His bunk always felt like an absolute cloud, and just the sight of one now has him mourning for the rest and routine he took for granted back then.

 _Back then._ He crosses over to sit on the bunk, resting his elbows on his knees. He wonders what the Admiral would say to him now, especially if he could land the Black Lion right on one of the Garrison's landing strips. The sight would make one hell of a recruitment poster.

Sanda might hide her astonishment well enough, but what would he think? Shiro smiles to himself, imagining the pure awe beaming from those wide, violet eyes. And that would be before he invites him aboard, to show him the endless stretch of sky and the stars. If there were any lingering doubts as to what he could achieve if he gave his best, a ride in the Black Lion would blow them all away.

'Wouldn't be able to steal my ride out from under me quite as easily though, would you?' he thinks.

*Who wouldn't?*

Shiro jolts, forgetting his present circumstances for that all-too-brief moment.

'No one. Sorry.'

*You okay? You're still pretty wound up.*

'It's nothing.'

In truth, the pearl white walls that surround him suddenly seem too jarring of a reminder of just how far away the Garrison actually was. At least the bunk wasn't an operation table.

He's grateful when Red doesn't press him, and they shift into a companionable silence. Eventually, Shiro tears off his helmet and sets it beside him before leaning back to lie atop the bunk. One by one, his charged nerves settle with the firm mattress at his back.

*How long is she going to take?* Red asks.

‘As long as she needs to, I guess.’

*Probably still trying to figure out a way to take us apart.*

Shiro stares up at the low ceiling of the cubby, his gaze tracing over its bolts and seams. 'I wouldn't worry. This is probably about as well as things could have gone. At least we seem to have made an impression on our hosts.'

*Because we had the Lion to back us up.*

'It worked out this time, right? I appreciated your restraint back there nonetheless.'

*Me? Never.*

Shiro smiles, letting his eyes fall shut. ‘Let's just try to stay optimistic.’

*Glad you're not having any trouble doing that. How could you possibly want to sleep right now?*

Shiro grimaces when he feels Red's anxiety thrum like a low-grade ache in his arm, and it's enough of a jolt to make his own pulse quicken. ‘Hey. Relax.’

*What about Zarkon? We were powerless against whatever he hit us with. If I can’t resist him in the Lion, then what more could the Kingdom do? Even if they help us, what can we do against a monster like that?*

Shiro takes a deep breath, wrestling against the tension building up to the juncture of his shoulder. Gently, he pushes back, his own calm thoughts and self-control cascading through their link like cool water. Slowly, the ache recedes.

He thinks, 'I know you're worried about what's going to happen to you. To us. I am, too. But that last battle proved we need to take every opportunity we can to rest. We don't know when we will be able count on another one, because you’re right. After meeting Zarkon, I know what we *can* count on is that battle will be far from our last.'

Shiro takes comfort when he next hears Red's voice, it's much steadier. *How can you stay so calm, despite saying all of that?*

'Because I have help.'

*Huh?*

'I have you, right? And you have me. We're a team. We'll get through anything Zarkon can throw at us so long as we don't lose sight of that.'

*Shiro...*

‘Right?’

*Right.*

The doorbell chimes. Then, a knock outside the door.

"Mister Jiro!" Coran's chipper voice calls out.

*Finally!*

Shiro grouches at the incorrect name, but calls out, "Come in."

The door slides open, and Coran greets him with a bow of his head. The two guards still posted keep watch on either side. Coran says, "Forgive the short reprieve, but the Princess will see you now. She would like to meet this 'Red' of yours, and I know just the way to do it."

*Meet me?*

“Meet him?” Shiro says. “How?”

Coran gestures for him to follow him out into the hallway. Shiro stands and scoops up his helmet, and the two of them proceed back through the corridor with the pair of guards at their back.

Coran answers, “Well, that part’s easy! We simply have you link up with one of our supercomputers. If we are to negotiate a friendship, we must have all parties able to speak for themselves, don't you think?”

"I guess so, but I didn't think that was possible outside of the Black Lion."

*Wait a minute,* Red pipes up. *Ask him what exactly this supercomputer involves.*

"Mr. Smythe-"

"Just Coran, thank you."

"Coran," Shiro corrects. "How do these supercomputers work, exactly?"

"In very basic terms, they're a hybridization of synthetic and organic pathways, with memory that is large and sophisticated enough to host another’s quintessence temporarily. We should be finished and have him returned to your arm before he starts to degrade and all that.”

*Degrade? No. Nope. No way, I don’t care what the Princess wants!*

Shiro stops short, wincing. He wonders how a voice in his head could still sound like a shout in his ear. He can't say the prospect gives him any comfort either.

“Something the matter?” Coran asks, turning about.

*I am *not* going to insert myself into some weird Altean computer, okay?*

“Seems we've hit our first bump in the road. He’s more than a little uneasy about your supercomputer idea,” Shiro says, massaging his temple.

“Oh, come now!" Coran stoops until face-to-face with the bend of Red’s elbow, speaking directly to the limb. "Now you listen here! It’s quite safe! There's only a one-in-quintillionth chance you'll come out loopier than an Oklarion weed."

*No!*

Wincing again, Shiro says to Coran, "Not that I doubt you, but I'd prefer Red be safe and comfortable for this.”  
  
Still hunched, Coran tilts his head, his eyes darting back up to Shiro. “A fussy one, is he?”

“Trust issues,” Shiro says with a shrug. “Though it’s understandable after what we've been through. I’m sorry for the trouble, but I don’t see why we couldn't accommodate both him and the Princess. Why not have our discussion in the Black Lion?”

*That's...that's actually perfect,* Red tells him.

“He’s all for that idea,” Shiro says for him.

Coran straightens, cupping his chin. He spins about and resumes their pace down the hall. “I’ll have to run it by the Princess, though I can't say this request will help her misgivings about you.”

As Shiro follows, he says, "Yet you don't seem to have much of any, Coran. I appreciated the open mind back there in the hangar, but why is that?"

"Why? Why, indeed. I suppose it’s because if it’s all working as Alfor intended, then Lion and the key wouldn’t function with just anyone. You both had to be chosen.” Coran glances over to him, smoothing out a wick of his fiery mustache. His brow falls when he says, “Please, I urge you to have patience with our Princess. She has an open mind as well, but she has inherited a great burden, and all the while she still mourns a terrible loss. But, if there is one thing our late King taught the both of us, it’s to always try and err on the side of curiosity. She will listen. You brought to us not just a solution to the war, but perhaps a chance to gain valuable insight into Alfor’s, well, _crowning_ achievement!"

"I see. Well, if it will help our case, then please let the Princess know we would be happy to share with you all that we've learned so far."

Coran brightens. "Excellent! Now, if you’ll tolerate the escort for a few more dobashes, the Princess and I will meet you in the hangar with our answer.”

Shiro says, “Whenever you are ready.”

* * *

 

Shiro cradles his helmet under his left arm, tapping his fingers against its lip. He counts almost fifteen dobashes before the Princess storms back into the hangar, Coran in tow. Her expression is unreadable as she approaches Shiro at the foot of the Lion’s ramp. As she nears, however, she glances to Red, and her expression turns severe.

"Coran tells me your friend doesn't trust our technology. Yet he will readily trust the Black Lion,” she says.

"That's right," Shiro confirms, without a hint of apology.

Her eyes flicker back to Shiro. "And he obeys you."

"There is no ‘obey’, only respect and trust. Fair warning, you’ll have to earn his."

Just as he thinks this discussion will devolve into another argument, her gaze softens. “Noted. Alright. Let us meet him, then.”

She says this, but her feet remain planted as she stares into the Lion’s wide open jaws. Coran leans, brow crooked as he tries to get a look at whatever the Princess is fixated on. But as her stare grows further and further away, Shiro says, “Are you alright?”

She startles as if he had poked her, but she comes back to herself swiftly. She replies, “Yes. I’m fine. Let’s proceed.”

She has Shiro’s guard wait at the bottom of the Lion's jaws while she and Coran follow into the main cabin. Inside, her steps are slow and deliberate as she makes a circuit around the cavernous space, glancing about. She grazes her fingertips along the interior walls, the goo machine, the center table. She says, “Forgive me. I never believed I would see the inside of it again. Much less when it was finished."

Shiro sets his helmet on the table. "Did you help build it?"

She shakes her head, folding her arms. "Sometimes. Well, not really. I would usually sit back and watch while he and his engineers did most of the work. He did teach me a lot, though.”

Coran says, “It’s wonderful to see you smile again, Princess.”

Allura seems shocked by this, and immediately schools back that smile. Shiro pretends to ignore it, but can’t help but feel moved by her moment of unguarded delight as well.

He gestures to the cockpit, saying, “Guess I’ll load him up if you all want to stay here.”

“Wait! I very much wish to see this,” Allura says. "I wish to see how this key works exactly."

"You don't know?" Shiro says.

"Only in theory. It never got to this point before Zarkon stole it,” she says, spitting out the last words like venom.

"Alright. There's plenty of room."

In the cockpit, they crowd in around his chair. With Red, he motions towards the keyport.

'Ready?’ he checks in.

*Oh yeah,* Red confirms.

Shiro’s not sure if he likes the sound of that, but nonetheless he punches in and turns his wrist.

The interior lights and dashboard flood with power, dazzling brighter than normal. Even less normal, the Lion's roar rumbles through the cockpit, and multicolor reticules flicker and dance across the console. Entranced, the three gathered around watch as clusters of them gather, until they spell out a phrase: _HI, PRINCESS!_

A chuff of laughter bursts from Allura's lip, and she immediately claps a hand over her mouth, though her bright eyes give away her amusement.

Shiro folds his arms, fighting to keep his tone neutral when he says, "Having fun showing off for our guests?"

"Maybe," Red answers, his robotic voice making their guests perk up. Shiro keeps his own amusement at bay until a pixelated Lion begins to dance across the viewscreen.

"Ah! Hello, Red!" Coran says. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance!"

"Likewise. And please, I am _not_ fussy."

Coran reels. “I meant no insult!”

"'Sassy' might be more accurate," Shiro tells Coran.

"Oh, _wow_ , sure got me there," Red answers. "Jerk."

Shiro’s about to retort, but a gasp behind him draws his attention. He twists around to the Princess. "Oh my stars," she says, her hand falling from her mouth. "Incredible. This is how father wanted to see the stars. How he wanted to guide him."

"Who?" Shiro asks.

"Zarkon, before he showed the world his true colors," Allura answers with a scowl. She wipes at the corners of her eyes, drawing away tears that have begun to well up. "Excuse me. I am pleased to make your acquaintance as well, Red. Allow me to thank you directly for your help in guiding the Lion back here."

"It's alright, Princess. You don't have to pretend to like me. I know you don't trust me. And to be honest, I'm not crazy about being here either after the reception we received."

"Red," Shiro says, thinking his honesty was a little too blunt.

However, Allura says, "No. He is right, and I do apologize. Sometimes, it is a struggle to keep an open mind when you are hurting.”

Red doesn’t respond for a beat. Eventually, the console flickers as he asks, "What happened, Princess?"

Coran opens his mouth, but hesitates and looks over to Allura. She shuts her eyes. She says, "It is a long story. Let us retire to the main cabin where I will explain.”

* * *

 

She giggles. The pile of parts next to her shifts, bare wires and circuit boards clattering. Then, four mice scurry out with their plunder: three small brackets, along with a short metal tube. They squeak as line up in a row, fitting the pieces together into a crude shape. One bracket forms a head and neck, the next forepaws, the tube forms the trunk, and last bracket the hindquarters. With their creation, the mice undulate and trot it around.

“Very funny,” she says, touching its “head”. She giggles again when a mild warmth develops underneath her fingertips, and she leaves behind a faint, bluish imprint that fades as she withdraws her hand.

“Jus’ what’re you up to back there?”

Father calls out from where he lies flat on the floor, face and arms buried within the undercarriage of the console, with a long screwdriver caught between his lips.

“The mice have snuck in here again,” she tells him.

He removes the screwdriver from his mouth to say, “Again, huh? Guess it can’t be helped. So long as you can charm them away from any, ah, trouble. Hand me another heat sink, would you?”

“Not a problem,” she says. She quirks her brow, and one of the mice sets down its bracket. It scurries to the heap of parts, dives inside, and resurfaces with the requested part with a victorious squeak. The other mice join in helping their comrade deliver the part within her father’s reach.

“Well?” he prompts.

“To your left!” she calls.

He puzzles, scooting until he can see the mice holding up the gasket as though it were a ceremonial offering. The screwdriver falls from his lip as he laughs.

“You’ve got them wrapped around your little finger,” he says, scooping up the part. “Can’t say I blame the little buggers.”

“Dad!”

“Alright, alright. Thank you, little mice. You’ll make a fine retinue for my daughter one day.”

She scoffs with a half-hearted eyeroll.

“See what I get for my trouble raising her into a smart, noble young lady?” he tells the mice. “No respect, that’s what.”

She giggles once more when the mice chitter amongst themselves, a touch confused by the exchange.

Suddenly, a loud knocking resounds through the metal. Heavy footfalls follow. The mice leap and scatter, and she has half a mind to flee as well when a large shadow stretches across the floor, shrouding her father in its ink.

“Alfor,” a deep voice calls.

She rises to her feet, just as her father scoots out from where he is wedged. “Zarkon? Is that you?”

“You wished to show me something,” the voice replies.

“Yes, I’m working on it now. Give me one moment.”

She looks up to the Galra that enters behind the shadow. A towering, maroon-clad golem next to her puny form, with jet black wicks of hair and a jagged lip. He glances about, cataloguing the exposed innards, dangling wires, and heap of parts. His narrow eyes turn towards her once he finally notices her presence, and although she’s seen this same face over a hundred times, her pulse still quickens. He says, “Ah, my dear. I have something to discuss with your father.”

“It’s alright, Zarkon,” father says. He approaches them, trying and failing to remove a smudge on his nose with a rag. “She’s old enough now for her to listen.”

Zarkon’s lip twitches, but he says, “Fine. What is it you wish for me to hear? Have you made progress on a solution?”

“That I have. But, ah-!”

Alfor coughs wetly, turning away with the rag pressed to his lip. He trembles as more moist heaves leave his lungs for nearly half a dobash.

“Father,” she sighs, curling an arm around his back while he convulses. Zarkon turns away from him until his fit subsides.

“Excuse me,” Alfor chokes out weakly. “You’ll have to promise me, though, that you’ll keep an open mind.”

Zarkon looks at him, his hard brow raised. “Fine.”

“Let me show you. You, too, Allura.”

Father guides them both to a half-finished port just above the console he had previously been dug into. He says, “As you know, even our computers aren’t nimble enough to support yours and Honerva’s design. The Lion needs more than just memory and processing power. It needs an administrator. It needs...consciousness.”

“Go on,” Zarkon says.

“The solution is quintessence. That is, the brain of a computer imbued with the quintessence of a volunteer. What you see here is how we can insert that quintessence. It’s still in development, but I have come up with a means to hold that quintessence. A key, essentially.”

“Why does the Lion need a key? Why can we not simply infuse it, and be done with it?” Zarkon asks.

Father squares himself, and swallows a lump. He says, “Why anything might need a key. So that someone else can’t just fly off with it. But this key will also allow you to stay connected with the Lion, even when you’re outside of it, among other useful features I’m currently installing. A personal shield, for instance! We don’t know what we might encounter up there, so it never hurts to be prepared.”

“We?”

Her heart stutters at Zarkon’s question, and the somber expression it calls to her father’s face. He turns to face Zarkon fully.

“Zarkon. You are the fiercest mind, and most capable pilot I have ever had the honor of calling my friend. As my time grows short, I would like to volunteer to give the Lion the necessary quintessence. Let me be your key, so that together, with this gift from the stars, we can rise to meet them.”

A deafening silence follows his words. Tears sting at her eyes, but she remains quiet as Zarkon rakes a hard gaze over her father. Her breath catches when Zarkon bares his pointed teeth. He says, “You call me a friend.”

Father’s brow twitches. “Yes. Of course I do.”

“Then why have you gone through all of this trouble to undermine my design?”

“What?”

Zarkon turns to her, leveling his petrifying gaze upon her once more. “Leave us. I insist.”

“Father?” she whispers.

Father tenses, but he chin jerks in a nod, and says, “It’s alright, dear. Go on.”

She takes a step back from Zarkon, and then she bolts. She only gets as far as the top of the ramp down from the Lion. She freezes to the spot and turns her ear, listening as Zarkon’s voice carries from the cockpit.

“Alfor, you disappoint me. You still believe this is about embarking on some grand adventure, somewhere out in the cold abyss? Meanwhile, the backbiters in my ranks flourish, and spies lurk in my court?”

With silent steps, she returns to the main cabin. Just as silently, she leans her back against the wall just outside the entrance to the cockpit, and slides down to sit. The mice chitter, hidden somewhere within the caverns of metal and wire. They trickle out from their hiding spaces, and she quickly presses a finger to her lips to hush them as they gather before her.

Her father replies, “That’s not what you and Honvera had said, was it?”

“And you didn’t think for one moment that there could be other, more practical uses for the kind of power the comet allows us to harness? Then you are a fool.”

Father sighs. “I now believe it is my turn to be disappointed, Zarkon.”

“Excuse me?”

“Do you really think I was that naive? I suspected the moment you showed me the blueprints. I could read your ambitions and your paranoia, plain as if you had written it in the margins. But I wanted to believe your words, that Honerva might make you see reason. That the both of you truly sought the Lion as a means of exploration, not of subjugation.”

“So your key is what? Some paternalistic means to keep me on a leash? This is not a solution. This is an insult, and I will not suffer it.”

“It’s only a leash if you perceive it that way, Zarkon.  If you choose it to be.”

Zarkon snorts and huffs like a stuck boar. “No. This was of _your_ choosing. Today, you have chosen against me.  Even you have betrayed me!”

“Wait, Zarkon! Can’t you see? Together, we are stronger. We combine our strengths, and cancel out our weaknesses. That has always been the guiding philosophy between our peoples, and that ought to be what drives the Lion.  Not fear.  Not hatred.  We can help you resolve your struggles at home, but please, not like this. I truly believe the comet gave us the power to grow, not to dominate!”

“Unhand me,” comes Zarkon’s dark reply. “I reject your naked sabotage. But if this key is the way it must be, then I will simply find another volunteer, one who is obedient to _me_ , not the other way around. Then, with the Lion under my control, I will secure my reign.”

“You won’t. I promise you, you won’t. Just listen to yourself. You’ll isolate yourself.  You'll never be able to accomplish great things alone.”

“We shall see. Now, if you wish to have your dear daughter remain with you, I suggest you hand over the Lion and the key into my care without argument.”

“What? Threaten me all you like, but how _dare_ you threaten my little girl!  I will, ah-!”

He finishes with a rough heave, and another fit of coughing seizes him. He hacks and chokes, phlegm coating his ragged breath.

“Pathetic,” Zarkon says, chuckling. “You are _pathetic._ I leave you to your last days, old friend. My cruiser will be over to collect my Lion and the key by the end of the quintant.”

Footsteps clang against the metal floor, and her heart leaps into her throat. Once more she bolts, legs carrying her down the ramp. She doesn’t look back, not even as the mice squeak after her. She doesn’t slow down, doesn’t stop until she stumbles into her room, adrenaline pounding like thunder through her temples. Her eyes glaze over, and she stands alone in the middle of the floor as she gulps down oxygen.

She blinks when she hears a squeak. Her eyes dart up to one of the vents, where she sees her retinue of mice scamper out. They crowd around her when her knees give out, and she slumps to the floor. At the sight of their wide, sympathetic faces, she bites at her knuckle, but cannot keep the tears from streaming down her cheeks, nor the sob that wracks her core.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew. We've come a long way already. I'm halfway through the next chapter so I hope to have that out a little sooner. Still hoping this is still kinda interesting for everyone so far?


	14. Chapter 14

"King Alfor meant to be the one in this arm," Shiro states, stunned. His eyes widen, and he turns his hand over. "He meant become what Red is now?"

Allura replies, "And with my father's failing health, he knew he would have been the perfect volunteer for it."

Coran says, "Which means Zarkon was meant to be where you are now, Shiro. That arm, the Lion, and that suit was originally intended for the Emperor."

Shiro fidgets.  Even though the suit is a perfect fit, it feels all at once too tight, too confining. Shiro's skin crawls with the thought of sharing anything with Zarkon. He frets across from where Allura and Coran are seated, all of them around the large table in the main cabin where Red provided them with a set of stools that rose up from the floor.

Allura says, "But in his rage and like a spoiled child, Zarkon took everything. He was determined to find another way to make it work. He expelled every Arus scientist within the Empire and cut off all ties. Do you know what he did next? He sent us, sent my father, a demand for the immediate and total surrender of all Arus research on the comet."

"I'm guessing Alfor refused," Red says.

She clenches her fists so tightly that they tremble. " _Quiznak_ he did, and it killed him. I know it did. His illness accelerated when Zarkon promised war, claiming that it was our family who had lied to him. Father was never the same." She beats her fist against the table. "Nevermind the centuries of friendship between our people. Zarkon threw away and trampled on a lifetime of mutual admiration and friendship with my family as if it all meant nothing, and it killed dad! And now I know for sure that it was possible for father to have lived on if not for Zarkon’s blind lust for power!"

The room falls silent at her words. The first to speak is Red. He says, "I didn't think I could hate Zarkon any more than I already do."

Allura wipes away the last of her tears, her lip tightening into a line. She nods. "Good. As long as we share that in common, then I can put aside any other difference we may have."

"That brings up another matter," Shiro says. "The Blade of Marmora. We are here for ourselves, but just as much on their behalf. And the behalf of my friends who were captured along with me."

"There were other Terrans with you?" Coran says.

"Yes, and I have no idea if they are even still alive. Kolivan, the leader of the Blade, is helping me locate them, so long as I can talk you into an alliance with them."

"They hate Zarkon, too," Red says. "They think his madness will destroy the Galra. Their group is small, but seem to be well-organized."

"They have people on the inside of Zarkon's ranks," Shiro says, leaning forward. "They would be an invaluable source of intelligence for you."

Allura remains silent, considering this as she glances between Shiro and Coran. "What do you think, Coran?"

"Frankly, the difficult truth is that our defenses will not be able to resist the Empire out in the open forever. We will need to consider more creative solutions to overcome their considerable resources, especially considering we have a problem with the Lion."

"A problem?" Red asks.

"What problem?" Shiro asks.

"The Lion is not at its full potential, is it?" Coran says. “The Princess and I have been discussing it at some length.”

Shiro leans back as though a harsh blast of air had thrown him. "No," he admits.

Allura says, "And that is most unfortunate. We will need the Lion at its peak if we have any hope of beating Zarkon. That means there must still be something askew with your bond. This will not do."

Coran holds up a finger in his eccentric, boisterous way and says, "There is only one explanation. Mysteries and intrigue must still abound between you!"

"So how do we fix that? We don't have any idea what's missing," Red says.

"I can't be certain either what else we can do to strengthen our bond," Shiro says.

Allura appears thoughtful, her eyes narrowed as she turns something over in her mind. "May I ask something of you, Red?"

"Go ahead," he answers.

"While not out of the realm of possibility, it's odd that a Galra would have such an immediate affinity to a Terran's quintessence. Just who were you exactly before all of this?”

"Um," Red starts.

Allura quirks her brow at his hesitation. Shiro slumps even further as the problem instantly becomes obvious.

Red says, “I know I'm Galran, but I don’t actually remember anything before waking up in a Diba-tech lab."

Allura cocks her head. “Don’t remember? Not at all?”

“We’re working on it,” Shiro says.

Coran scoffs, saying, “Can't remember! Figures those mad scientists would make a clumsy mess of the infusion.”

Allura says, “Whoever you were, Red, I can tell you that your quintessence must be very strong to have endured whatever the Empire's druids put you through."

“Like someone had stuck me in a blender and then poured me out into the arm. Then they kept trying to attach me to other Galra.”

Allura’s eyes widen. “They did? Why would they have done that?”

“Testing me, I guess. Never could attach cleanly, not until Shiro came along,” Red says. “Before, they would just rip me out and start over. It might please you to know I’ve destroyed a few Galran brains, Princess.”

“No,” Shiro corrects. “Like I’ve said, the Empire and their druids destroyed them. You didn’t.”

“Ancients,” Allura says, shaking her head. “Galra or not, this does not please me in the slightest. How many lives must Zarkon butcher and destroy to get what he wants?"

“But Shiro isn’t Galra. I wonder if there isn't something more to that rather obvious variable?” Coran offers.

Allura says, “Perhaps. But if I understood my father’s notes correctly, the comet’s material itself is finicky, as though it has a will of its own. He swore it gave him visions and inspiration while he was developing the key. Father hated to call it ‘magic’, but for him it was a placeholder for what he could not yet explain.”

“Then for the record, it’s all magic to me,” Shiro remarks.

“Ditto, and I’m the one who’s the weird spirit machine,” Red adds.

Allura wrings her hands in her lap, her expression devoid of any levity.  She says, "Whatever the explanation, the fact remains that the Lion is only at partial strength. Despite Coran's counsel, I am not persuaded to risk the lives and freedom of my people on the good faith of a Galran spymaster. I cannot accept the friendship of this Kolivan and his Blade of Marmora."

"What?” Red says, hotly. “We practically give you the Lion on a platter, with their help, and you're saying it's not good enough?" Red blares. “Like you said, so long as we want Zarkon gone, then that's what should matter, right? The Blade of Marmora are the same. If they weren't, don't you think they would have already hand delivered us to Zarkon?"

"I’m sorry," Allura says, holding firm. "I simply can't take the risk, not without something to put our backs up against if the worst case scenario came to pass. And if my Kingdom falls, just who do you think would be next?" Allura says, piercing Shiro with her gaze. "Zarkon won't stop with just our territory."

"Terra wouldn't stand a chance," Shiro says. His jaw sets, and takes a breath before he says, "Princess, I understand you are in a difficult position. I understand there is a lot at stake. But you seem to trust us. And if the Lion is that important to beating Zarkon, then it’s in your best interests help us.”

  
“That's true” she says. “And to that end, I will lend whatever assistance I can.”

“Then if-- no, _when_ we do bring the Lion to its full potential, will you then consider an alliance with the Blades?"

Allura's eyes widen. "Well..." she starts.

"Or at least consider hearing them out?" Shiro pleads.

Coran says, "Now there's a proposition."

She pauses, searching Shiro's face. She then says, "That would certainly boost my confidence.  I will consider it, but you must understand, we do not have forever to wait, and-,”

“Princess! Princess!”

A voice calls to them from the hangar. Galvanized by its tone of urgency, Allura goes, followed by Coran and Shiro. There, they meet a messenger at the bottom of the ramp, who drops to one knee.

“Please forgive the interruption!” the messenger says. “But Zarkon’s forces are assaulting our defenses at the Balmeran Canyons. They are poised to break through within the varga!”

Allura’s face falls. “Oh no. We cannot concede this territory. We must send reinforcements at once.”

Coran says, “Our forces are thin. We may not have enough reserves to patch the hole.”

“We can assist,” Shiro says.

“Absolutely not,” Allura says.

Bewildered, Shiro says, “Why not?”

“I cannot let that Lion out of my sight.”

“Then bring the castle, too. I know it can put up a fight. Together, we can repel the Galran forces.”

Allura shakes her head. “No. You would simply draw Zarkon’s fortress to where we are vulnerable. I will deal with this crisis. Your priority right now is to find a way to strengthen your bond with Red. I will permit you to move freely between the Lion and your quarters here in the castle. I will return offer any assistance I can.”

Allura descends the ramp quickly, following the messenger’s escort from the hangar. Coran follows-- but not without tossing an apologetic look over his shoulder.

* * *

 

The knowledge of the battle being waged by Allura does little to help focus Shiro’s thoughts.

Shortly after the Princess’ departure, he returned to his quarters on the castle with Red for company. Somehow, the sight of the interior of the Lion made him feel even more like a prisoner at the time. Moreso than now as he tosses and turns on his meager bunk, his thoughts in an equal state of turmoil. He knows he needs to breathe, to let his mind empty just a little more with every exhale, and call upon a practiced patience that he relied on in these difficult circumstances. Why was it so difficult now to follow his own advice?

He pulls out Red’s dagger from his belt, bringing it around to look over its fine edge and glowing rune. As terrifying as they had been, he silently pleads, begging for it to grant him another vision. For a scrap of memory. For anything, really, that might offer the slightest breadcrumb of a trail.

The blade remains cold, silent, and inert.

"Any ideas on how to unlock the Lion's full potential?" he says out loud.

*Yeah. I have a pretty good idea.*

Shiro pivots and sits up, hunched over the side of the bunk as he continues to turn the dagger in his palm. ‘What is it?’

*It's me.  I'm the problem.*

'How so?'

*The Lion can’t function well enough because I can’t figure out who I am.*

‘It’s not your fault,’ Shiro tells him. ‘But I have admit, it is a glaring gap of knowledge that we don’t have.’

*So how am I supposed to figure out something like that in a place like this? The Princess isn’t about to let us leave the castle, not without a fight. The Blades won’t help us without an alliance, and we have no other leads.*

Shiro thinks, ‘Okay, first let’s take it easy. We can start by going over what we already know.’

*I guess.*

‘You’re Galra, and we learned from Kolivan you’re related to Krolia.'

*Right.*

'And this dagger had belonged to her.’

*Kolivan also said she married a Terran.*

Shiro can’t help the way his pulse quickens, but he can’t put his finger on the cause, either. He turns the dagger over again. Then, his eyes widen. ‘Maybe…’ he starts.

*What?*

‘You think...what if they had children?’

The joints of Red's fingers tighten.  *Wait. _Wait_. What are you suggesting?*

‘Do you think,’ Shiro swallows. “Do you think it’s possible that you’re Terran, too?’

Shiro gasps when the tightness of his fingers explodes into a full blown seizure. It’s a sensation Shiro had almost forgotten about, so it takes him doubly by surprise.

‘Red! What’s happening? Red, stop!’ he begs, contorting as pain travels up his arm and rips through his shoulder.

He can never tell whether it lasts for mere ticks or long dobashes, but eventually, the episode recedes, though it leaves little leftover spasms in its wake. Shiro coughs and gasps, calling for Red again in his mind, but no reply comes to him. Instead, the veins of his arm pulse with red light.  That same odd tugging sensation comes back, the same as when in proximity to the Lion.  It pulls him up from the bed.  He grabs up his helmet before leaving his quarters. He follows the pull to where he knows it will lead, without question, in the blind hope for an answer.

He storms into the hangar, nodding to the two sentries posted just inside the door. The Lion looms high and dark, back on its haunches. Yet as Shiro approaches, it makes no move to allow him entry.

“Hey,” he calls up to it. He holds Red up, fist clenched. “Did you call us here?”

*Shiro,* Red crackles in his mind.

‘Red! What happened? You okay?’

*Yeah...better now. Ugh, you’d think the Lion could just ask us to come. With, you know, words.*

‘But the Lion isn’t responding now. What is going on?’

The hangar doors hiss open. Shiro turns, and something like relief comes over him at the sight of the Princess as she sweeps in. She’s alone.  When she spots him, she then dismisses the sentries with a gesture of her chin. As they retreat, she joins Shiro at his side.

“How goes the battlefront?” Shiro asks, lowering Red back to his side.

“Poorly. Balmera is a critical stretch of our territory where we mine for crystals that fuel much of our technology. We have repelled the attack for now, but the defenses there will need time to recover. Time we are running short of as the Empire seems to hit us harder and more frequently with every passing quintant.”

“I’m sorry,” Shiro tells her, truly.  In that moment, it hits him as to just how useless he feels, to busy being caught up in one mystery after another, tearing his body this way and that, and that good people are suffering because he can't work this out.  People like Sam and Matt Holt.  And now the Lion wants to play mind games?  He clenches his fists.

“Any progress for you?” Allura asks. She surprises him with a gentle hand on his shoulder.  There’s no trace of a demand in her voice, only curiosity.  

“I’m not sure,” Shiro says. “I think the Lion practically strangled Red in order to get us in here, and now it doesn’t want to let us inside.”

“Hmm,” Allura starts, gazing up at its hulking form.

"I don’t get it,” Shiro continues. “Red's already made himself at home in my brain, and I trust him with my life. I'd say we're pretty well-bonded. I don’t see why that’s not good enough."

Allura shakes her head. "It’s not a matter of good enough, perhaps. The Lion demands the best. It needs you to find the perfect balance to Red in terms of strength, will, and sincerity. Just as Red must be strong enough to endure this rigor, so must your quintessence be as well, Shiro. Any imbalance or incompatibility risks weakening the both of you, as well as the Lion, to the point of complete rejection. This balance is what the Lion recognizes and adapts to, and so far, the proof of yours thus far is the Lion’s ability to fly.” She turns to him fully, though her gaze looks up upon the Lion. “While I do not know all the mysteries of the comet, I think the Lion wants to show you that you are capable of even more. But there cannot be any more secrets between you, as terrible and uncomfortable as they might be.”

"Secrets," Shiro repeats.

"My father said that the comet contained its own secrets that even he did not fully understand. Are you strong enough, the both of you, to face the unknown? Perhaps the Lion will show you the way, if you are brave enough to withstand the scouring light of the truth."

‘Red?’ Shiro thinks.

*Unknown or not, I go wherever you lead.*

Shiro says, “If that’s what it takes. Even if it’s painful, even if we’re scared about what will happen, we have to do whatever it takes. For ourselves, for the people we love, and the fate of the world.”

The Lion’s golden eyes flash. It shifts, and with a low purring, it bends forward, its open maw inviting Shiro inside.

Allura smiles. “See?”

Genuinely astonished, Shiro says, “Thank you, Princess.”

Yet, as he gazes into the throat of the Lion, a bolt of apprehension shoots through him. Just what would the Lion show them?

“You can be afraid, but do not let it stop you from greatness. I will remain here to witness your triumph,” Allura says.

He nods to her, propelled forward by her gentle reassurance. He rises through to the cabin, and into the cockpit. His anxiety peaks the moment his eyes fall across the chair, and he stands transfixed.

*Come on. Don’t chicken out now,* Red says to him.

He marvels when, just like that, his fear subsides, draining out until a wry smile crosses his lip.  ‘Fat chance,' he thinks as he sits down.

*Remember, you said to me that we can face anything together. That we’re a team. We’ll get through whatever comes next.*

The wryness drains, too, leaving behind nothing but the warmth in his chest.  ‘You’re right. You’re absolutely right. Thanks.’

*No problem.*

‘Red?’

*Yeah?*

‘You really are the best friend I’ve ever had.’

Shiro can almost hear the sigh, followed by: *Allura was right.*

'Oh?'

*Terrans really are sentimental.*

Shiro chuckles, leaning forward. ‘Alright, alright.  Let’s get this show on the road.  You ready?’

*You don’t have to ask me every time, you know.*

'I know, I just-,'

Suddenly, the console turns on. The smile drops from Shiro’s face.

"Hey, is that you?" Shiro asks out loud.

*Is what me?*

“The Lion. It just powered on.”

*I...I feel it. But no, you haven't connected me yet.*

Shiro’s hands dart out to grip the control sticks, though more to steady himself as the Lion’s head rears up. Below, the Princess shouts something, her astonishment etched on her face. Shiro jostles the control sticks, but it's completely useless as the Lion rotates on its paws.

"Whoa, stop! Stop!"  Shiro shouts.

*What's happening?*

'The Lion. It's got a mind of its own. I can't control it!' Shiro thinks, sweat beading down his temples.  He shouts again, "Why won't you stop?"

*Then plug me in!*

Shiro looks to the key port where he can connect Red, but finds it sealed over. He swallows. 'It's shut, Red. I can't.'

*What do you mean shut?*

'I mean there's a metal seal over where the port used to be!’

The familiar red of emergency lights suffuse the hangar once more. The doors of the launch tube open, and the Lion jostles with the ignition of its thrusters. “ _Quiznak_ ,” Shiro whispers, bracing for when they catapult down the long stretch of tube, and tear out into the bright open sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Black Lion up to shenanigans as usual
> 
> I'm not sure if I'll get to post again before Season 8 drops, so if I don't, I'll see you all after the finale! After we all crawl out of our bunkers, I mean...(I'm _kidding_ )


	15. Chapter 15

He had expected Galran soldiers. He expected foes equipped with blades and guns. Foes he could either outwit, or overpower if necessary. This is what he had prepared himself for, well beyond what the Garrison would have ever authorized.

 _Graduation is on hold until you speak to someone,_ Iverson said. _As of right now, you’re unfit. You’re killing yourself, Kogane. What would Officer Shirogane think of you right now?_

After all Shiro had done for him, Iverson still didn’t understand. He wouldn’t have cared what Shiro thought in that moment, so long as he was there to do it.

He sparred at all hours, alone. Faster kicks, harder punches. While a live opponent was ideal, his intensity scared off any takers, including junior officers. They wouldn’t have challenged him, anyway. Not like Shiro. No one like Shiro.

When he wasn’t sparring, he was practicing self-imposed deprivation of food, sleep, sunlight. Any and every hardship he could think of, he inflicted on himself. He endured it with only a threadbare memory of his smiling face, looking back at him against a sunset. A flickering, yet constant star set against the void.

_I know what you’re capable of, if you can learn some self-discipline._

His hands may have been calloused and bloody, but he didn’t have to speak to someone to know that Iverson and the Garrison preferred covering their asses instead of uncovering the truth. They acknowledged a problem with the Kerberos mission only after Sam Holt's daughter, Katie, uncovered logs of the team's failure to report. Only when rumors began to mutate with rampant speculation did Garrison command officially declare the Kerberos team MIA.

They might as well have written KIA in the release. He's not sure what made him angrier: that they only dispatched an aerial survey of the Kerberos site, or that they laid the failure at Shiro's feet in order to save face.

No, he knew which made him angrier, and he could not have cared less to see Admiral Sanda's shock when he confronted her.

_Who told you this information?_

_No one. You and your commanders should be more mindful of what they leave lying around for prying eyes. And you might want to update your password standards._

_This is grounds for immediate dismissal. What are you thinking? What would Shirogane think of you right now?_

_What would he think of me? What would he think of your cowardice in refusing to share any responsibility for what happened? How can you stand there and pretend you have the high ground, knowing you turned your back on the best officer this place ever had? None of you are worth a fingernail of Shiro's, and if you can't see that, then this place is a joke. You're no Admiral. Next to Shiro, you all are just playing dress up._

_I've heard enough. You’ve wasted your chance. Remove yourself my office, Kogane. And pack up your things. If you are not gone by sundown, I will have you escorted off the campus._

Yet he was the one who had the discipline problem. He was the one who was unfit.

Whatever. It was all past now. Now, he found himself nursing his chagrin over having blind spots to his blind spots. How could he have ever expected phantoms in hoods and masks to throw black lightning, much less know the mind-collapsing pain of a bolt ripping through his flesh? These creatures were unlike anything Garrison education could have ever prepared him for. The singed flesh of his right hand still throbbed as two Galran soldiers dragged him by his arms.

They hauled him through the tormented architecture of whatever black fortress they delivered him to. They chuckled when he jerked against them, feeble and weak. His legs could hardly support him. He hadn’t slept in a quintant and a half, and ran out of freeze-dried rations at least a quintant before that. He clung to consciousness as the toes of his red-tipped boots scraped along the ground, and everything ached.

But it didn’t matter. In his thoughts, Shiro still shone against the dark. He still drew breath. He could get through this.

After an interminable journey through violet and black-ribbed innards of the fortress, the guards presented him at the bottom of a dizzying stretch of stairs. They twisted his arms and kicked his knees out, forcing him to kneel. His eyes drew up toward the throne perched at the top, and to the giant of a Galra seated there.

Zarkon. The Emperor himself was much, much larger in person than any description would bear, and his hard, stony glare alone could have withered any mortal's courage.

But even under those behemoth, golden eyes, he neither bowed his head nor averted his eyes. He mets the Emperor’s cold gaze with equal ferocity.

Next to the Emperor stood a cloaked figure, hunched and dark at the ear of her highness. She spoke with a reedy tone, saying, "This is the Terran intruder, sire. We caught him in an attempt to break into the prisoner holding cells. He was carrying this."

She then pulled from her long sleeve a purple dagger with a strange rune etched in its hilt. His dagger! He jerked in the soldiers' grip once more, but they yanked him back into place.

Zarkon reached out, the dagger more like a toothpick in his massive hand. After a cursory examination, he leaned forward and pointed the tip at the prisoner below. "You infiltrate my territory, wreak havoc on my most closely-guarded facilities, and you do so armed with little more than this, a _child's toy?_ " With a flick of his wrist, he sent the dagger pinwheeling down the long steps, and it landed at the bottom with a sharp clatter. “Yet from what I am told about your ill-advised foray, you nonetheless gave my soldiers a very difficult time in capturing you. That even though you have the face of a Terran, you fight like a Galra soldier." His jagged lip pulled into a smile, but his voice boomed like thunder.

"I don't care. Give Shiro back!" he thundered right back, but it turns to a gasp when one of the guards pinches his shoulder.

Zarkon leaned back, saying, "Ah, yes. The other Terran. He did have a name once. Why don't you tell me yours, little soldier?"

The 'little soldier' only spat in reply.

A glint of amusement flashed in Zarkon's gaze when he told him, "Such defiance, even as beaten and pathetic as you are. That kind of fire I see in your eyes is quite rare, even among Galra."

"What shall we do with him, sire?" the hooded lady asked.

Zarkon seemed to forget her completely, his hard gaze fixed on the prisoner before him. He said, "You have my sincerest respect, warrior, and so I will make you this promise. If you can best my Champion in the arena, then I will release your friend to you, and you both will be free to return to your Terran hovels. I'll even let you keep your little child's toy for the fight."

"Sire," the hooded lady objected, but Zarkon finally took notice and shook his chin, and she thus fell silent.

Zarkon continued, "But should you fail, and you are yet still breathing, then the both of you will belong to me for the rest of your short and miserable lives."

"I'll beat anyone you throw at me, so long as you'll just give him back!" he shouted up from the bottom of the steps.

Zarkon chuckled. "My, how devoted you are. I hope he appreciates what a loyal friend he has in you." To the cloaked figure, he said, "Prepare the arena. Allow him his plaything as well. Let us see how far that loyalty of his extends."

"As you command." With a jerk of her sharp chin, the guards hauled their charge up to his feet. They pull, turn, and shove him forward.

How he arrived at his holding cell was a blur, save for the scraped knee he picked up when they threw him inside. Sometime between the throne room and the arena, they lashed a weight to his ankle. He dragged himself to the hard plank of his bed, with only the torches outside the bars casting any appreciable light. Exhaustion tore at his eyes, but he could not sleep if he tried.

Just one more fight. Whoever this Champion is, he could overcome them. Everyone, everything, has a weakness.

Drums and shouts thunder through the dungeon. Both shrieks and laughter echo through the stone halls as other prisoners are ripped from their cells and marched to their fights. A guard comes around to throw him a pittance of moldy bread and water as if he were a dog. These are his only measures of time, yet it could have been vargas, or half a quintant before his call to the arena came up.

The guard in attendance unfastened the weight on his ankle, then dragged him by his arm to a heavy door, reinforced with a lattice of thick iron bars.

"Where's my knife?" the prisoner asks. "Your Emperor said I could have my knife."

The guard next to him grumbled as the heavy door slid to the side. His heart began to palpitate until he felt the hilt of his dagger rudely shoved into his palm, just as the iron bars retracted.

He had everything he needed. A swell of confidence boosted his hopes. Shiro trained him for this. He could do this.

Yet as he looked out across the stretch of the arena floor, his heart stopped dead. A cold sweat broke out across his forehead, and he forgot all about the blade in his hand.

The crowd roared. Spotlights traced patterns across the dirt. They crossed where his opponent stood, bathing him in scattered light, then gone. Even from this distance, he can see the hard lines of his mouth and brow, and the shock of white where his coal bangs used to be. Even more alien was the gold and violet infusing his hateful eyes.

This couldn't be him. This couldn't be the man he fought so hard for.  It couldn't be.

"What sick joke is this?" he said to the guard. "The Emperor wanted me to fight the Champion. Where is he?"

"You're lookin' at 'im, maggot," the guard answered. A rough shove slammed to his back, and he stumbled into the arena. The metal gates clanged shut, sealing him in with his fate.

The lights were so bright, but he felt the gaze of Zarkon and the witch at his side like insects crawling over his skin. "I can't-, this can't be real," he breathed, falling back on his heel.

The voice of an announcer pealed out over the ferocious din of the crowd. "Loyal subjects of the Empire! We have a very special event for you this evening. For the first time ever, we give you not man versus beast, not Galran warrior versus Altean scum. No! Tonight, we pit Terran versus Terran!" The ensuing cheers threatened to blow the roof off.

He forced his weak legs to shuffle him toward the center, where his opponent awaited with a mad scowl. He loomed silent as a statue, with a single battered sword in hand. Not even a flicker of recognition crossed him.

"Will the Champion carve this challenger to pieces? Or will perhaps the challenger prevail, and take his place?" the announcer says.

"Shut up," he whispered, tuning the announcer out, as well as the deafening sound of the crowd. He gave his full focus only to the man standing before him, and with full-throated plea, he spoke the Champion's name: "Shiro."

More sweat poured off his brow when the address does little to move Shiro, save for a glint of bared teeth.

"Shiro, it's me! It's Keith." Keith stretched out his shaky hand to him, palm turned up. "I'm here to bring you home, like I promised. Remember?"

No response. Shiro’s bewitched eyes stared beyond him, empty, vacant. A fresh jolt of horror flooded Keith when he noticed the rest of his condition. Shiro was always larger that Keith, but even under the blood-flecked rags of his purple shirt, Shiro had clearly put on even more muscle and was far leaner now, attesting to his extensive experience in this Galran slaughterhouse. His chin was scruffy, his unwashed stink made his eyes water, and it hurt to see him reduced to little more than a circus animal to these bloodthirsty hordes shouting down around them.

It shocked Keith back into focus, but he wasn't about to give up yet. No sudden movements, Keith told himself. Soft voice. "It's okay. We can fix this," he said to him over the roaring demands for their spilled blood.

"Can you stand the suspense? Me, neither! Match begins! Fight!"

Shiro's upper lip twitches, and it was the only split-second tell Keith had before his own instincts propelled him backwards. A vicious slash came a hair's breadth from slicing him open like a fish, but Shiro gave him no pause as he continued to lunge at him with his sword. His sword slashed across again, and Keith only just deflected its edge with his dagger with a shrill scrape, his wrist smarting with the impact.

Blades scraped and clanged as Shiro chased him about the broad circle. "I don't want to fight you!" Keith yelled, hoping his voice could somehow chip away at the savage delirium possessing his dear friend. "Shiro, it's me! It's Keith! Keith! I know you're, ah, in there!"

Keith had filled in, too. He had trained, too. Relentlessly, in the months before and after his dismissal from the Garrison. There was no going to Galran territory for a prison break without being at peak condition himself.

Yet the blows from Shiro were staggering. Another blind spot in his training. How absurd it was, that he could ever have anticipated every eventuality, every hardship. Even if he could even have fathomed this one, what could have been the solution?

_Let's say someone asked you how to beat me.  Hypothetically. What would you say?_

_I'd tell them it was a lost cause._

"Shiro, I know you're in there," Keith pleaded, his every hope and his very life pinned on whether he can call Shiro back from whatever compulsion had him in its clutches. He ducked a slash sailing over his head. His breathing grew labored, but Shiro had yet to break even a sweat. "Shiro!" Keith screamed, the name raking over his dry throat, but the attacks kept coming. He thrust out, a mistake, and Shiro hooked his arm and crushed his knuckles to the underside of his jaw.

Pain exploded across his jaw, and the blow knocked him flat onto his backside. When he could finally open his eyes, he grimaced, not at at the bright lights above, but at Shiro's murderous shadow towering above him.

The announcer barks, "What drama! How touching! The new blood pleads for the mercy of his comrade. But no man survives the arena, not for as long as he has, without abandoning himself to his purer instincts!"

He couldn't win with raw strength. He relied on endurance and reflexes instead. Timed blows, smart plays. With Shiro advancing, he rolled back up to his feet, and when Shiro opens himself with a wide slash, he threw a kick with surgical precision. It connected dead center of Shiro's chest, and he could hardly believe his eyes when Shiro skid across the dirt, grunting as the attack sent him reeling.

"Unbelievable! Incredible! The challenger scores a hit! Is the Champion losing his edge, or is the challenger finding his will to fight?"

Rage burned in Shiro's gaze, but Keith didn't miss the twinge of uncertainty that tugged at the corners of his eyes.

"Come on, Shiro. I can't imagine you've been through, but you have to recognize me," Keith said.

"Victory or death," Shiro answered, throaty and raw.

Keith gasped when, like a bolt of black lightning, Shiro snapped forward and his sword came up. It knocked the dagger clean from Keith's hand, flying off somewhere behind him. Shiro pulled back and thrust his sword to skewer him, but Keith leaped to the side and took off to retrieve his only defense lying in the dirt. Shiro slashed at his heels as he bent to pick it up, but then a hard shove sent him spinning onto his back.

With all his godly might, Shiro crashes the edge of his sword down on him. Keith's head would have split open like a pumpkin if hadn't caught it with his dagger, but the force of the impact tore through his whole body, and he cried out with it. A pathetic whimper crawled out from his throat when, suddenly, the edge of Shiro's chipped and weathered blade blazed to life with scalding violet energy.

_Stop teasing. Everyone has their blind spots. And if anyone can see mine, it's you._

"Shiro, please!"

Keith's hands, arms, his entire body shook and shuddered with the exertion to keep his head.  Shiro's scowl deepened, and his insides twisted around as deeply as if the sword had sunk into his ribs.  With pure hatred bearing down over him, it was impossible to hold back anymore.

"I love you."

It was there and gone in an instant, but it was real. The glimmer of...recognition? Disbelief? Heartbreak?

But that gleam of hope vanished when Shiro's expression hardened once more.  "Just give up," he said. "You don't have to fight anymore."

The edge of his blade dug into the skin of Keith's cheek. Keith screamed, terror and desperation bursting like a deluge out from his heart, flowed like rapids through his arm, and cascaded into the hilt of his dagger. Suddenly, the dagger in his hand morphed into a long sword, and he slashed up, its perfect edge separating him. Separating them-- and Shiro from his right arm.

He couldn’t hear it if Shiro cried out over the thunderous din of the crowd, but his mouth fell open when he staggered backwards, his severed arm falling uselessly into the dirt. Bleeding and pale with shock, he fell to his knee, and looked up. His eyes were unclouded.

"Keith?"

"Enough!"

Incredibly, the raucous arena fell silent. Not even the wail of a child was heard when Zarkon stood from his throne, and addressed the scene below. "I have seen enough. You have done exceedingly well, challenger."

"I've won, then," Keith declared, rising to his feet. His chest heaved with exertion, yet he managed breath enough to shout, "Now let us go home!" His next breath came as a gasp when Shiro wobbled, then pitched forward, landing unconscious in the dirt.

Meanwhile, amusement crossed the Emperor's craggy features. "Brave warrior, after that performance, you are not going anywhere. You have confirmed what I already suspected: that you belong at my side."

As the words sunk in, nausea bloomed and churned in Keith's gut. "What? That’s not what I agreed to! I'd never serve you!"

"You will, if you don't want your dear friend to simply bleed out in this place,” Zarkon said.

Keith’s mouth snapped shut, heart lurching when he looked down to Shiro's prone form. The pool of blood next to him grew larger. He needed treatment, and needed it soon.

" _Quiznak_ ," he sobbed, dropping his sword. It returned to its dagger form in a flicker of light.

Zarkon chuckles.  "A wise choice. Your surrender is not a defeat, warrior. I have greater plans for you. You will soon come to understand where your talents belong. Remove them!"

He stared when the stretcher came, and they hauled Shiro away. He stared at how limp and pale he was. Maybe he was dead already.

He stared as the Emperor's guard snaked arms under his, and dragged him from the arena, through the dungeons, and up the flights of steps. They bound his feet and his arms behind his back before they loaded him into a helicopter.

He stared when they descended into an underworld of crags and rock, every inch imbued with a cold blue energy. He stared even as masked creatures put their hands on him and bore him inside some odd-smelling facility with the same enthusiasm as vultures with a carcass.

He stared when the cloaked witch, very the same one at Zarkon’s ear, gestured to an empty stasis cell. He stared when they tossed him inside. Frost soon licked up the side of the glass and bit into his skin.

_I love you._

The creeping cold blinded him, and seized his muscles.

"I love you," he whispered, before his lungs arrested, and the cryofog enveloped him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh crap I broke my own heart writing this fucking chapter


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your patience with this next installment! It's a heavy one.   
> Like most of you, I was shocked and appalled by the creative decisions of Season 8, and so I had to take some time away from this fic and hammer out some fix-its for my own sanity. Despite all that disappointment, I'm still committed to this fic...though I wish it were more out of love than out of spite, but hey...

*Any idea what the heading is?* Red asks.

'Sun is setting on the right, and with the time of year, my guess is south-southwest,' Shiro thinks.

Shiro wishes he had a more specific answer. The Lion rockets through the dusky sky like a missile, its trajectory fixed on wherever destination it intends to deliver them. It achieved its top speed shortly after exiting the castle, only half of which would have ripped any state-of-the-art Garrison aircraft to pieces. The surroundings warp and stretch, time and space displacing like water around the wedge of a prow. Shiro feels as though in a suspension that soaks in to his bones. By now he knows that the laws of physics as he knows them no longer apply when it comes to the Black Lion, but the sensations are so novel and so peculiar that he cannot help but feel astonished once again by the machine's power.

*South...what's south?*

'I'm not exactly sure. Maybe-’ Shiro halts, and his eyes widen in shock. 'Terra. Terra borders the south.’

*I was afraid it might be something like that.*

‘Quiznak, the Black Lion is going to scare a lot of people if it goes anywhere near a city or a Garrison outpost.’ Uselessly, he tests the control sticks, and they refuse to budge.

*I know we should trust the Lion, but I’m not so sure about this anymore.*

Thunderclouds ahead roil and rage, and the Lion dives headlong into the storm. All is dark inside the cockpit, save for the dimly glowing viewscreen, and brief flashes of lightning. Seconds later, it pops out the other side of the clouds, and sure enough, Shiro can spot the landmarks confirming his fears, including the deep, winding canyons at the edge of the Kerberos region, snaking along the horizon.

Despite all their pep talks and good feelings before climbing aboard, a quiet dread constricts around Shiro's heart.

*Shiro?* Red prods.

'Me neither, Red. But the Lion thinks we're ready for what comes next. I guess we'll have to be. Besides, at this altitude and speed, the Garrison shouldn’t be able to detect us. If they do, they’ll probably blame their equipment first.’

Several more silent moments pass. Kerberos falls well behind them by the time the Lion begins to decelerate. Shiro settles into his chair as the weird suspension eases off into a drop when the Lion dips, banking into a gentle descending spiral. As the ground nears, and smudges of light and shadow sharpen into better focus, he squints through the brilliant red rays of dusk and scans the barren lands below.

‘Whoa, wait!’ His whole body tenses. ‘I recognize those ridges over there.’

*From what?*

‘Garrison Headquarters & Academy. Those ridges are a natural border for their flight test ranges. We must be in the badlands just beyond the outskirts of the base.’ With a frustrated huff, he jiggle the control sticks in vain once more. He looks up and says, “Hey, Black? We’re out in the open here!”

*So much for staying out of range of detection. A giant flying lion isn’t exactly subtle to the human eye, faulty equipment aside.*

“Please!” Shiro begs, but the Lion pays him no heed as it continues to drop altitude. Shiro thinks, ‘Maybe with the sun behind us, and at this distance, they won’t notice us. It’s not like they would be expecting a giant flying lion to show up out of the blue. Then, hopefully, it will be dark by the time we leave.’

*Hopefully.*

The tinge of incredulity forces a sigh from Shiro’s lips. ‘Don’t burst my bubble yet, okay?  Either way, we should try to make this quick.'

*Right.*

With a measured breath, Shiro brings himself back to their immediate circumstances as the Lion swoops in closer to land. The expanse of flat barrens spreads out like stretched deer hide, dotted with tufts of shrubs and grass. Within this contrast, a dark rooftop and a lone tree catch his eye, like black pebbles in a puddle of orange. 'I think I spot something. An outpost?' No, a cottage. Small.'

The Lion pulls up, its paws firing thrusters to stabilize the rest of its descent. Plumes of sand billow out from under its heavy form as it lands some meters from the domicile, sending a tremor through the cockpit.

'I never knew this was out here. I don't see any other sign of civilization for miles. I doubt anyone actually lives out here.'

*Could be a base for travellers. A jumping off point.*

'Maybe, but why? Who would come all the way out here?'

The Lion bends and opens its jaws directly in line with the little home- a weather-worn shack really, now that Shiro is at a better angle to look. As a safety precaution, he dons his helmet, and secures Red's dagger by his hip before exiting the Lion.

'I actually don't think anyone's been here for months,' he thinks, noting the sand piled in front of the home's only door. The plain rocking chair by the door almost makes it seem inviting, but as he steps up onto the modest landing, he stops short when Red's metal plates shift and tighten. Not uncomfortable yet, but noticeable.

*I'm okay,* Red tells him, preemptive.

'You sure?'

*Like you said, I guess I will have to be. I don’t so much think this is a major clue, but I feel it.*

Shiro reaches, testing the door handle, finding it open and loose. In fact, the door had been ajar, and the ankle-high mound of collected sand spills further past the threshold. He steps over it, thinking, 'You were a Galra living in Terra? Maybe that explains the remoteness of it.'

*Or part Galra.*

Shiro swallows, his throat dry with sunbaked air. ‘We haven’t ruled that out, have we.’

Despite his heightened nerves, Shiro’s heart sinks when he looks around at the tiny space, too cramped to be even politely called modest. It’s a cage, equipped with the barest amenities and enclosed within cracked and crumbling walls. A single, burnt out bulb overhangs a center table-- or more accurately, a plank propped up on cinder blocks. Along the wall and under the shack’s only pair of windows sits a metal framed couch, with a thin slipcover folded over its frayed, dried out cushions. Shiro wonders at the stacks of blank paper sheets, piled like snow drifts beneath a single wall shelf lined with books.

What demands the most of his attention, however, is the large, rectangular object hidden behind a thin sheet draped over it. Flanking it are shelves of radio receivers and transmitters on one side, and a pile of computer equipment on the other.

‘Someone kept themselves busy,’ Shiro thinks. He pinches a corner of the sheet and pulls, and as the sheet flutters to the floor, he gapes in shock.

He reveals a corkboard-- no, an evidence board, filled from corner to corner. A large topographic map with radial lines drawn over it takes center stage and the largest proportion, backed up with clusters of sticky notes, lines of yarn, and photos in a tacked on and taped up jigsaw. Shiro reaches, brushing his human fingers across creases and lines, his heart tumbling further down through the bottom of his feet when he seizes on a flicker of recognition as to what the seeming disarray before him depicts.

*Shiro? What are you seeing? You’re stressed,* Red says.

‘Kerberos,’ Shiro answers, stepping back to take in the whole of it. Rough sketches and question marks orbit the photos, each depicting angles from all over the Kerberos site: tire tracks, broken Garrison equipment, and the survey site itself. He recognizes the hole punctured through the stratum from the indents of the drill’s teeth.

More troubling are the charcoal markings - potential and aborted routes, the latter each marked with an aggressive X - from it into Galran territory to the north. But even that doesn’t take the cake.

  
Rather, it’s what he finds clustered in the northeast of everything: his pictures. Of _himself_. One from a Garrison recruitment pamphlet, another from a newspaper. Then, his graduation photo, taken the day he received his officer uniform. He touches the corner of it with the tip of his finger.

His knuckle brushes a sticky note. His pulse surges hot under his chin. There’s a barely legible message scratched across it.

_It’s killing me when you’re away._

He rips his hand back as if he were burned, staggering backward until his leg bumps against the table. As if he had plucked one of the lines of yarn, it all snaps together. The investigative photos, the map, the notes. "Red," he says out loud.

*What is it?*

"Someone was looking for me.”

Shiro winces when Red contracts, the plates squeezing together.

*Who?* Red asks, a whisper in his mind.

“You.  _You_  were looking for me,” Shiro says, continuing to speak out loud. He pivots, gasping when Red twitches. Shiro looks down to his palm and says, “Why else would the Lion know to bring us here? This is from your memories. You lived here, Red, and you knew who I was. How did you know me?”

*I...I don’t know.*

“You don’t _know?_ ” Shiro balls up his fist, knocking it against the center table. He continues to speak aloud, “Come on, Red. We’re so close. You have to remember, even if it’s painful. Even if...if it killed you when I was away.”

Red contracts again, and this time Shiro yelps from its relentless intensity.

*I-...ugh! It's the similar feeling. The one I had about the dagger. That feeling of ownership, conviction...but now, an unbearable emptiness,* Red says. *But I can’t go further, Shiro. It’s like-- it’s like being at the edge of a cliff, but not knowing where to leap, nor how. You have to help me. Look around. There has to be more.*

With Red still twitching and seizing, Shiro scans around the shack. By the door, he spots it, an object he hadn’t noticed in favor of the corkboard. A red jacket hangs by its collar on a hook, with gold accents at its breast. In two strides, he crosses over and takes it by the sleeve.

‘I know who wore this. No, that can’t be,’ Shiro thinks, hazily through his discomfort.  He rips his eyes away, only to have them fall upon a picture frame by the couch. He crosses over to it in three strides and scoops it up. In the photo, there's a trim, middle-aged man with short hair and day old stubble in fireman's clothes. Shiro doesn’t recognize him, but beside him, a young teen stands with arms crossed, staring ahead with surly eyes and dark, shaggy hair.

Shiro's eyes pop open wide. Suddenly, he can't pull enough air into his lungs. He drops the picture frame, his knee knocking against the table as he staggers for the door.

*Shiro, what's wrong?*

He bursts outside, but he still can't get enough air. Is it terror, horror, relief, joy pressing down on him? The photo. The red jacket. The writing on the corkboard. His graduation picture. A maelstrom roils in his chest, pushing out all breath, crumbling all reality under his feet except for one name.

"Keith," Shiro whispers.

Red seizes. The joints lock, and the red veins flare hot. Shiro cries out when a pain like hot steam shoots through his shoulder and pools in his brain. He gasps, swaying when his legs turn to rubber. He stumbles, his knees hitting the dirt hard. He props himself upright with the arm outstretched, keeping his twitching fingers pried apart in the dirt.

"Keith!" Shiro shouts toward the horizon, toward the sun halfway sunk, his voice booming over the flat, empty desert.

His whole body quakes and convulses. Drops of water splatter in the dirt, but there is not a single rain cloud overhead. Tears, his tears, he realizes, and that he can't stop them from spilling.

"Keith...Keith!" he grits out, sliding back onto his knees. “It was you, wasn’t it? All along, it was you. It couldn’t have been, but it had to be. I thought...I was afraid. I didn’t want to believe it. I didn’t want to think you’d be so foolish. Why were you so foolish?”

A horrible, silent beat passes as the plates and gears of the arm seem to be rearranging themselves. 'Keith? Answer me, please!'

The pain and tightness fade. The arm gives a few more twitches as joints relax. The voice in his mind crackles, weakly. *I remember. I remembered he moment I you said my name.*

'You...you searched for me. Why did you come look for me?'

*I promised. I told you I would bring you home.*

'I didn't think...Keith, you idiot. How did this happen to you? What did they do? What the hell did they do to you!"

*That part is still only a blur. I only remember how scared I was, but not for myself. Shiro...I'm sorry for what I did to you. I tried to reach you, but Zarkon...This was all my fault.*

'I told you. You're not responsible for what the Galra did.  I...I'm responsible.  Aren't I?'

*No. I am.*

Shiro puzzles. 'What do you mean?'

'Shiro, you were...you really were the Champion. But you weren't yourself.'

Shiro leans back further, sitting on his backside. 'What? Keith...'

*You had gone mad, I think. Or Haggar had you under some spell, I don't know.*

'Keith, what do you mean?'

*In the arena. I took your arm off with my dagger.*

Once again, the air rushes from Shiro's lungs, and he can't pull it back in.

*You don't remember, do you?*

‘I thought...I thought it was just a nightmare. Keith, I hurt you. You did what you had to do. Now, you’re like this because of me. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry!' More tears burst from the corners of his eyes.

*Hey, I found you, didn't I?*

Shiro breaks into a pained grin. 'Yeah, you sure did, buddy. But after what I did...I can’t forgive myself. I didn’t deserve this. I don’t deserve this.’ He wipes the corners of his eyes, then looks up, his brow severe. The Lion looms above them, inert and patient.

*You did. You do. If it meant I got to save you from that hell, then I have no regrets about any of it.*

Shiro rises to his feet. He looks down at Red - at _Keith_ \- and flexes his fingers. ‘After what you’ve done for me, then I can’t have any regrets, either. Keith, I’m not giving up. Zarkon brought us together, and he hasn’t taken you yet from me. I won’t quit, not until I find a way to fix this. To stop the Empire, and to save you.’

*It’s okay, Shiro.*

‘What’s okay?’

*I don’t think there is any saving me.*

‘What!’

*Shiro, my devotion belongs to you, just as naturally as any of your limbs do. You don’t need to repay it-- you have already given me enough. It’s enough that for once in my lonesome life, I had a friend like you. I’m satisfied I got you out of there, even if I had to give up my life before.*

  
“Keith,” Shiro blurts, and a fresh layer of tears coat his tacky cheeks. He jerks when the sound of jets rumble, then roar as they streak by overhead.

*I brought you home. The Garrison will be coming for you. You're safe. I can’t...I can’t think of a finer reason for all I went through.*

'What are you talking about?' Shiro looks down to his palm, and blanches when the red lights between the plates throb, then dwindle. His arm feels heavier and heavier, as though the energy were bleeding out through an invisible wound. 'Keith? Keith!'

*Zarkon intended the Black Lion as a weapon, and I am Galra.*

‘So?’

*I don’t want to be the reason you get hurt. I don't want to be the reason you’re in danger. But Zarkon wants me, wants the Black Lion to serve him. As long as I'm still here, he and his druids will never stop hunting you. Maybe Allura was right. You should remove me, and make sure I can never hurt you nor anyone again.*

'Keith, come on. We still have work to do. You can’t give up. What about Kolivan? About Sam and Matt? Even if you’re asking, I can’t accept this. We can find another way, but Keith...I need you by my side. I need you by my side, no matter what!’

Silence penetrates the long seconds it takes for Keith to reply, but the response rends his guts.

*I don't want to live like this. Knowing who I was, reduced to this, I-...I’m sorry, Shiro, but I just can’t do this anymore.*

He spots plumes of dust some distance away, and the growing rumble of armored vehicles make their presence known.

‘Keith…’

*Just...I just want to rest, Shiro.*

Shiro startles when the Black Lion shifts. He backs away as it moves from its haunches to lie down, its chin tucked between its massive paws. When the ensuing dust devils fade, its golden eyes glint, then darken as if passing into slumber.

Shiro rushes to it, grunting with the effort to lift his right arm and place the palm flat against the beast’s lower jaw. He leans against it and says out loud: “Please. Please stay with me. It'll be okay, you’ll see. Once I explain everything to Admiral Sanda, she'll agree that we need to ally ourselves with the Princess against the Empire. Once we beat Zarkon, then...then we can figure this out. Okay? Please! Come on, buddy!” He strains when the vibrant red of his arm vanishes completely, and his back and shoulder can’t hold up the considerable weight of the appendage. He winces when it slips from the Lion and yanks him down.

When the silence in his mind drags on, and as the last threads in the base of his skull fray apart, he thinks, ‘Rest, then. You’ll see. I’m not giving up yet.’

The remaining sun dips below the horizon. At the growing rumble of approaching vehicles, and the thrum of helicopter blades piercing the silence, Shiro straightens and waves his left arm to greet the convoy. He grimaces as his shoulder strains, and his deadened arm lugs along in its socket.

A pang of doubt wedges into him when he sees the line of trucks and buggies extend at least three rows deep, with additional helicopters and jets in support. The response seems excessive, but reasons to himself that they don't know yet whether the Black Lion is hostile. He rushes toward them, as fast as he can manage, holding his left arm up high in what he hopes translates as a show of nonaggression.

Bright headlights blind him momentarily as the first of the vehicles slide to a halt before him. Their engines chug as personnel with hazmat suits and electric prods pour out from them.

"Hey! It's me, Officer Shirogane! From the Kerberos Initiative! I must speak to Admiral Sanda immediately!" he shouts as they surround him.

Then, Commander Iverson peeks his head out from the top of one of the humvees. Astonished, he shouts, "Takashi Shirogane? You're alive!”

Equally astonished, Shiro replies, "Commander! Thank the stars!”

Iverson’s gaze traces over to the Lion, his shock deepening as he sputters, “Y-you? You are the one responsible for this?"

“Yes. I will explain everything. Take me to the Admiral, please," Shiro replies, dropping his left hand.

But Iverson doesn't reply. Instead, his apprehensive expression cuts through Shiro like a sword. The edge twists when Iverson looks to the hazmat crew and orders, "Arrest him and put him under.”

"What! No, wait!" Shiro pleads. The circle closes around him. "What are you doing? It's me! Commander! _It’s me!_ ”

“I’m sorry, Shirogane. I’m under strict orders to collect the pilot of the Black Lion and secure any other stolen technology.”

“How did you-?” Shiro starts, but jerks when the first crewman touches him. He throws them off, spins, and slips out of the grasp of the next, but his movements are difficult and uncoordinated with the heavy weight of his dead arm swinging from his shoulder.

“Get his weapon,” one of the crewman says, catching the glint of the dagger at his belt. A pair of arms encircle his, but with Shiro’s size, the bear hug is flimsy at best.

“No! Don’t you touch that!” Shiro says, tearing free with ease, but grimaces when the arm at his side pulls on the burning muscles of his shoulder. “Keith! Keith, come on! I could use your help one last time.”

“Keith?” Iverson repeats, glancing around. “Keith Kogane? You know of his whereabouts? Is he with you?”

Shiro struggles not to laugh, madly, as the crewmen regroup, this time brandishing their prods. “Of course he is,” he answers. “You really, really underestimated him, sir. And me, for that matter!”

Shiro surprises a crewman with a hard slap to the wrist, wholly unafraid of the prod he knocks aside. He dashes for a gap in the encirclement, unfazed when the disarmed crewman pounces for him and latches onto his waist. Shiro drags him like a doll as he breaks towards the Lion.

Vehicle engines roar to life, and a humvee blocks him with a screech of tires. Another pair of hands from behind falls on his shoulders, but still they cannot subdue him, not until a third grabs his left wrist and wrenches it behind his back.

He cries out when they tip him forward, and he lands face first into the dirt. Yet still, he comes close to getting his legs under and lifting all three grown adults on his back, until one of them catches him by the helmet. They tear it off, and Shiro cries out when a needle punctures his exposed neck.

"Stop! Stop!" he repeats, but the sedative works fast. His spine and legs go slack. His whole body turns to mush as they flip him over, haul him onto a stretcher, and load him into a truck.

“Are you certain about this, sir?” one of the crewman asks the Commander.

Shiro is still awake, but his throat works and bobs, his vocal chords having seized with paralysis. As he stares up at Iverson, pleading, he wonders intrusively how Iverson had come to lose his left eye.

“I…” Iverson starts, his good eye closing fast. “The Admiral was quite clear. Get him loaded up and back to base.”

"What about the Lion?" the crewman asks.

Iverson replies: "Leave it where it is. The Empire can come pick it up once negotiations have resolved.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh god.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, an update! Thank you all for your patience. I regret it if this seems like a short update after almost 3 weeks, but my day job has been killing me lately, plus we are really getting into the thick of things with this next leg of the story, so I want to be extra careful with how things line up...hope to have the next chapter out much sooner!

Wakefulness tugs at his chest.  It draws him up, and he breaks the surface with a gasp and a shiver.   Harsh lights and the odor of disinfectant crash against him, unpleasant all at once, and for a fleeting moment he’s tempted by the urge to suck in his breath and sink back into the depths.   
  
Next, he's aware of drab whites and polygonal paneling that provide the only spit of safe harbor-- Garrison-issue construction, at least.  Not a Diba-tech lab, not a Galran slaughterhouse. Even so, the differences are difficult to sift out when misshapen creatures circle to and fro.  He blinks, and the creatures sharpen into technicians, three of them, all fully clad in white decontamination suits with black filter masks, orange smocks, and teal gloves.    
  
“He’s awake.  Go fetch the Admiral.  She wanted a word.”   
  
At the sound of the gruff voice, distorted through his respirator, Shiro jerks, but tight straps pin his left arm and legs to the examination bed.  A strap about his midsection thwarts his move to sit up. He can only crane his neck to see over his boots, where one of the technicians slips out through the doorway just beyond them.   
  
They tied down his right arm, too.  He cannot sense anything other than the cold weight of his dormant companion, and intrusively, he wonders why they bothered.  The restraint is not only meaningless now, but inadequate were Keith actually awake. For the illusion of control, he supposes.   
  
As for himself, they left his flight suit on for the moment, save for his helmet and right sleeve.  The courtesy was unlikely to last. If he never found himself strapped to an examination bed ever again, it would be too soon.  The pulse under his chin ticks up to a gallop.   Try as he might not to think about it, panic threatens him like choking gas held back by a thin door.   He wets his chapped lips and croaks out, “Keith.” 

Sluggish and heavy, the sedative in his system nonetheless continues to relax its grip.  He glances over to where the vambrace and sleeve of his suit is missing, and without its red glow, his right arm looks as though rotten and shriveled, and about ready to fall off if it weren’t bolted to his person.   On a table next to the bed, he catches on the gleam of sharpened steel. An array of surgical equipment rests on a metal tray: scalpel blades, clamps, needles, and a roll of gauze.    
  
“Keith, you have to come back,” he pleads, ragged through a coat of phlegm lining his throat.  He swallows and leans up as far as he can from the exam bed, wincing when his head throbs with the motion.  It’s almost enough to distract him from the unbearable silence that answers him.   
  
A gloved hand comes to his shoulder, urging him to lie back.  “Easy, Officer."   
  
“Commander?” Shiro starts, focusing his blurry vision onto the mask hovering over him.  “Commander Iverson, what is this?”   
  
"Take it easy.  We'll have that thing off of you soon."   
  
"'Thing'?  You mean-, wait!  No!" 

He jerks again against the straps.  The exam bed creaks, and the bolts of the fastenings groan, startling Iverson and his aide.  “Hey!  Don't make us have to knock you out again, officer," the Commander barks.

"Sir, you can't remove him!"

"Officer Shirogane-"   
  
"It'll kill me if you do."   
  
Iverson reels back.  "What do you mean 'it'll kill you'?"   
  
"It's not just a matter of cutting a few cables.  He's wired not just into my brain, but bonded to my being.  We share thoughts, sensations, motor control. The shock of removal right now could render me brain dead."   
  
"’He’," Iverson repeats.  "That hideous thing is a ‘he’?"   
  
"Yes, and not just anyone.  It's Keith. Keith Kogane. I know how it sounds, but it’s the truth."   
  
A chuff of air blows through the respirator as Iverson regards him.  Then, he clicks his tongue.   "Bastards."   
  
"What?"   
  
"The Galra.  They really did a number on you, didn't they?  What a damned mess."   
  
"Sir, I'm not-" Shiro starts.  "This isn’t in my head. This arm was engineered by King Alfor.  The technology is made from the comet. I can tell you so much more, if you'll just give me the chance to explain, and not treat me like an animal!” Shiro says, rattling against the straps once more.   
  
Iverson bows his head.  He glances over to the doorway just past Shiro's boots.  With a huff, "Not my call, I’m afraid."    
  
A metal tray clatters next to him.  The smell of latex assaults Shiro over the disinfectant, and while the black screens of the breathing masks unnerves him, but not moreso than the fresh supply of clamps, razors, and drill bits a technician sets down on the table beside him.   
  
_Sharp_ drill bits.  A clammy sweat breaks out across Shiro’s temples.  “Listen, I know you’re just following orders, but-”   
  
The access light beeps, and the doorway surges open with a nominal green flash.  It might as well have been an airlock with how the air pressure seems to plummet with the sudden breach.  He cranes again, looking over the tops of his feet as the oxygen seems to rush out, and Admiral Sanda sweeps in, straight-backed and severe as ever under the brim of her peaked cap.  She crosses over to stand at the foot of the bed, hands tucked behind her back.  As she scans his form, but then the thin line of her lips drag down at the sight of Shiro’s arm. 

“How is he?” she asks.

Iverson answers, “Stable enough.”

“Thank you.  You may leave us,” the Admiral says, nodding to Iverson.  The latter hesitates, but after a shaky salute, he beckons the other crewmen to follow him out, leaving Shiro to fend for himself against this pip-spangled golem.     
  
“Officer Shirogane."   
  
Mentally, he braces.  “Admiral Sanda.”   
  
She looks him over once more, saying, “I can scarcely believe it. That you are alive - most of you - and that you were the one piloting this Black Lion.”   
  
Shiro’s lip twitches.  With a half-strength pull against his restraints, he replies,  “All due respect, this has been the worst welcome back party I could have imagined, Admiral."   
  
She huffs, mirthless.  “What, because you expected a parade?  What did you think would happen when you decided to bring dangerous stolen technology across our borders?"

"To be treated like a lab animal all over again?  No, didn't expect that. From the Empire, perhaps, but not from you.  Not my own countrymen."   
  
"And I didn't expect an officer of your ability and character to forget all about his countrymen and incite conflict with the Galra.  Yet here we are."   
  
“Incite conflict?  The Empire did that when they kidnapped us!  When they tortured me. Experimented on me. Mutilated me.  Who knows what they’ve done with the Holts."   
  
“You were responsible for their transport and safety, so why is it that only you returned?”   
  
“I was knocked out, and we were separated before I came to in a Diba-tech lab, not unlike the present circumstances.  When I woke up, this arm was already part of me. Maybe you can explain how it's considered stealing when the technology in question is something they forcibly attached to my body?”   
  
A twitch in her steady brow belies her mounting agitation.  “So you compounded an already bad situation by taking this Black Lion?  Did they force you to wear that suit? Give you this knife?"   
  
She moves to the bedside, drawing out from behind her back a familiar black and violet blade.  The Marmoran rune glows softly.    
  
His eyes widen.  "You have no idea what it is you're holding.  If you did, you would know that doesn't belong to the Empire," he says.  "None of it should."   
  
"Well, I can assure you that they beg to differ, and they are not about to wait patiently for you come to your senses and return it to them.  And as a Garrison Officer, this looks even worse for our relationship with the Empire, and it's taken everything at my disposal to forestall an invasion.  Tell me, did you even think this far?”   
  
“It’s hard to think very far at all when your immediate survival is in doubt, Admiral.  Somehow, I get the feeling you would have preferred I didn't come back at all.”   
  
"Of course not, but the reality is that your actions have put millions of lives at risk.  I took a leap of faith as to your fitness for the Kerberos assignment. Had I known your physical condition would be the least of my concerns, I would have resigned before I signed off my approval.  But someone has to clean up the mess, and unlike the Galra, I am going to give you a choice. Our only saving grace right now is that we even have a bargaining chip."   
  
Shiro tenses.  “You can give back everything else, but Keith...Keith is _not_ a bargaining chip.”   
  
“Kogane again?  Hmph. Commander Iverson said you mentioned him before, yet that overgrown child was nowhere to be found.”    
  
“Careful, he might still be able to hear you,” Shiro says, nodding to his right arm.   
  
Sanda reels, bafflement pervading her features as her eyes dart about the room.  "I’m afraid I don't follow. Maybe you can explain what does that smart-mouthed washout have to do with any of this?  Is he somehow an accomplice to all of this?”   
  
Shiro can only meet that question with grim amusement, resulting in something of a mad chuckle he cannot contain despite the withering scowl it earns him.   “Accomplice," he repeats. "I guess so, in a way. He’s the reason I could pilot the Black Lion in the first place.  I know we dismiss it as occult, as pseudoscience, but I've learned firsthand that quintessence is real. The specifics are beyond my expertise, but the Empire can manipulate it, and in doing so they somehow put Keith’s inside this arm." He nods to his right arm, limp and dead. "I know how it sounds, but King Alfor designed it this way, and for good reason.”   
  
“Need I remind you that extraordinary claims require extraordinary evidence."   
  
Shiro hesitates.  “You want proof."   
  
The Admiral settles in with an expectant gaze.   
  
He looks over to his arm, flexing his shoulder to give it a slight jostle. "Keith.  Hey, if you can hear me, show us you’re in there for just a second, please? Do something.  Anything. Then you can go right back to sleep," he coaxes.    
  
His arm stays cold and dark.  

"Come on, buddy," he says, giving his arm another gentle jostle.  Meanwhile, dread eats him alive as the long, awkward silence crumbles Sanda’s thin veneer of patience.  “Come on,” he pleads.  
  
Her rigid skepticism breaks through when she sighs, annoyed.  Despite this, her sharp gaze turns soft, and she reaches up to rub at her temples.  “Dear me. You are a sorry sight. I think...I think I understand better now what’s happening here.  I can't truly know the extent of the trauma you have had to cope with, and I know you two were close.  You leaned on him, and I can personally attest that he had an unconquerable faith in you. I can see how that kept you going, kept you believing there is meaning to your suffering.  But Kogane isn’t here. He's gone. He went missing some time ago, and no one has heard from him since.”  
  
Shiro tenses against his restraints, saying,  “ _Don’t_ , Admiral. You don’t understand. This is _not_ just in my head.  I am not crazy, and I don't appreciate you shrinking me as if I were."  
  
"I meant no offense, nor to go beyond my expertise in these matters.  But no one comes back looking like you do without picking up psychological wounds alongside the physical.  We can get you help, Officer, if you'll just cooperate-"  
  
Shiro surges.  A bolt cracks, and the exam bed clangs with the force of his exertion.  With a startled gasp, Sanda jumps back from his bedside.  

"Keith didn’t disappear! He came to look for me, to bring me home! And stars above, he did exactly that!  He did it after being beaten and stuffed inside this piece of machinery, in a form that I'm not even worthy to bear, all because I..because I..."

He can't finish.  His tight, quivering voice grates to his own ears, and the thread of pity pulling at Sanda's brow strikes as an embarrassing reminder of how he's supposed to be making the case for his intact sanity.  He collapses back against the bed. If he were honest, he's not so certain whether something along the way hadn't fractured beyond his ability to glue back together.  
  
At least not while Keith stays conspicuously, frustratingly silent.  
  
He steadies his voice with a long breath, then says, "I how it sounds, but I’m sure you’ve seen for yourself that the Black Lion is no ordinary piece of tech, either.  It’s too powerful for one person alone to operate. So, they had to put someone’s soul into a machine. That’s how the Black Lion works, and why Zarkon wants both it and Kei- my arm so badly.  How could I make this up?”   
  
Sanda scoffs, shaking her head.  “Truth be told, I don’t care about the Black Lion nor the key.  I just want them gone from our territory, and the Empire with them.”  
  
“But sir, I can’t give it up.  Not just for Keith.  I don’t know what the Empire has threatened you an Terra with, but Admiral, you have to believe me when I say that you cannot hand the Black Lion and the key back over to Zarkon.  It would be the end of the world.”  
  
“Your captivity must have been cruel and difficult, and for that I do offer my sincere sympathy.  But let's not be so dramatic.   We can get you the care that you need, Shirogane. You can still redeem your honor, and help protect this country and its people.  Help me, and I can help you. Give up the ‘key’, as you call it, and I will personally ensure that your service is restored with full honors, and that you have access to all the help and care you need.”  
  
“No, you're not listening.  Keith is not up for trade."   
  
“Even if it meant the return of the Holts?”  
  
His mouth falls open, but all he can come up with is: “What?”  
  
“It’s part of the deal.  We return the stolen key and the flight suit along with the Lion, and they will return our people back to us and stand down.  The Holts, and you, will never have to see another Galra soldier ever again.”  
  
“They’re...they’re alive?”  
  
“Yes.  One of ours verified they are among their forces here to collect the Lion.  And aside from some weight loss, they appear to be unharmed.”  
  
Shiro's gaze drifts up to the ceiling, and he traces the straight, uniform lines between the polygon panels.  Just like that.  Just like that, with a simple trade, his worry over them would be resolved.  But unease, rather than relief turns him back to Sanda.   “You can’t trust them. The Empire doesn’t respect us, Admiral. They showed you that when they abducted us the first time.”  
  
“It matters little when there’s a Diba-tech carrier poised to descend on our heads at this very moment.  They are giving us the choice, and you should appreciate that I have extended you the same courtesy. Please, I’m allowing you the chance to spare your own dignity.  Do not make this involuntary.”  
  
“You call this a choice?  Are you hoping I’ll spare my dignity, or your conscience?”  
  
Sanda turns her lip at the jab, saying, “These are not mutually exclusive things.”  
  
“No, but I think it’s painfully obvious, even to you, that neither of us can pretend we have any control here on our own.  You bought into an illusion, when the reality is we need help.  And we _do_ have allies. We still have control here, Admiral, but not in the way you think.”  
  
“Enough.  This is not a strategy meeting, Shirogane."  
  
Nonetheless, he goes on: “You say you want to help me, but I think it's me who can help you.  We have made allies on the inside of the Empire who want to take Zarkon down. I have met with Princess Allura.  She is capable, and full of heart. I know she will welcome our help against the Empire. We can-,”  
  
Sanda holds up her gloved hand and snaps, “No.  I will not continue to talk in circles nor listen to your fanciful hypotheticals.  Think of the Holts, and be sensible. Surrender the technology."  
  
"Even if the Empire does return Sam and Matt, it’ll be meaningless if Zarkon burns us all down anyway.  You're consigning them and every Terran to misery and death if you refuse to listen to the truth!"  
  
Sanda draws a heavy sigh, her chin bowing.   “I think I've listened to enough.  The health and dignity of one person, even someone as hardy and talented as you, does not outweigh the lives, health, and dignity of millions.  A team will be sent here in one varga to prep you, whether you surrender or not. You have one varga to reconsider. We never much saw eye-to-eye, but I hoped that you would see this my way.”    
  
“Admiral, please!"  
  
"One varga."  
  
She turns about face, her last look over her shoulder a pensive one.  A flash of reflected light bounces off the edge of the dagger in her palm. Her heels click-clack, and the door whispers shut.  He wants to scream.  Thrash, _shout_ at her back like the mad man she believes he is if only because he can't find the point in pretending otherwise.  His psyche probably does have a limit as to the madness it can absorb until some of it has to start bleeding out.  

The dull, smelly room is far too quiet to have for himself.  He grins.  Grins to the point where his cheeks burn at the irony of just how much he misses the voice in his head.  The convulsion and odd noise that escapes him ends up somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

* * *

 

Absent any sense of time, Shiro refuses to believe it has been a varga the next time the door beeps again.  

He had been twisting and worrying the straps at his legs and left wrist, encouraging any defects or microtears to show themselves.  He resolved to escape-- but now, he resolves to fight.  The muscles of his neck complain with the effort to look between his boots.  He expects a team to storm in, armed with needles.

Instead, while he does see a nameless, faceless hazmat suit appearing in the threshold, they seem to be alone.  Held between fingers at their side is not any sort of needle, but instead the wire handle of a surgical box.

“Commander?” Shiro croaks out.   
  
No, not Iverson.  His first clue is the quiet that answers.  The only sound that comes is a creak from the box's hinges.   
  
“Or whoever you are.  You can let the Admiral know I haven’t changed my mind," Shiro says, lying back down flat.   
  
The suited stranger crosses over to his bedside with sober strides.  Definitely not Iverson, for the difference in aura is a brisk one, like that between a toasty cabin and field of fresh snowfall.  Not quite unsettling, but nonetheless grabs his attention.   
  
“Let me guess.  You’re under strict orders not to speak to me,” Shiro tosses out with a half-hearted shrug, if only to distract from the hard gaze he can sense boring into his exposed arm, even when concealed behind the mask.  With a nod toward his straps, “Could you at least loosen these just a little, then? They’re pretty tight.”    
  
He flinches when they set the box down atop the tray beside him with a harsh clatter, scattering needles and drill bits.  Their head tilts, and Shiro follows the line of sight to one of the several security cameras installed about the room. They then tilt back towards him, face mask angled down.   A beat passes between them when they move surgical tools back and forth as if rearranging them, but before he can make a comment on this odd charade, the stranger says, “I just have one question.”   
  
His brow raises at her, intrigued as she flicks open the latch on the box.  She pries the lid open, slides apart the top layer of compartments, and reaches inside.  Carefully, she lifts out out a familiar black hilt. Its Mamoran rune glows dimly just over the lip of the box.   
  
“Where did you find this?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know there is a lot going on in this story lately but I'm hoping that it's not too exhausting lol


	18. Chapter 18

While landing conditions were never ideal, the fierce blizzard made her approach downright suicidal. And if the dense plumes of volcanic smoke did not deter her, then the coat of frost accumulating on her shuttle should have. White and black swirl and churn together outside her cockpit, flashing with bursts of lightning. She hates this part, where the tireless storm blots out her view of where she needs to land, and it was instruments-only from here on out.

But she doesn’t hate the mountain, even as is lashes out at her in these wild, violent swipes. At first she did, surely, after her first few harrowing approaches as a green recruit. After she grew accustomed, that hatred softened to pity; it reminded her of something of a bitter old crone, driven mad with isolation, and cursed with too long a life.

It took many more approaches before she realized her boundless admiration for it. By surprise and all at once, she realized she had never known a more unique and enduring creature in all the world. Volcanic and ashen within, snowy and bleak without. A summit of dynamic, chaotic systems dancing about an indestructible body that is nothing if not everlasting. A spire of death, but so too a cradle for change.

Its tortured howls have not eased in the slightest since she first arrived at its crown, and today, it shrieks with ravenous gusts seeking to bite out the life of anyone unworthy enough to come close. The mountain may reject her vessel, but her console flashes green. After acquiring the guidance signal, she grips her control stick and braces for when another crosswind batters snow and ice against the craft. As she sinks further into the soup of snow and smog, she prepares for a bumpy landing.

After a gust nearly pitches the nose into the carpet of snow, and another nearly sweeps the whole craft into a nearby cliff face, she lands the ship with a heavy crunch. Hopping out from the cockpit, she trudges through drifts that swallow her legs just below her knee. Her hood snaps and whips about her shoulders, but her mask and suit shield her from the worst of it as the wide gate ahead rises up from the rock.

The lift down to the Marmora court jostles to a stop. She starts forward, her gaze fixed on the two of her comrades on the dais at the end of the walkway. One of them, Kolivan. She can tell just by the way his shoulders set with his arms crossed behind his back.

The other comes to kneel just behind him. “Sir!” he addresses.

Over his shoulder, Kolivan asks, “Regris. You have something to report?”

“Another Altean scout ship felled by the storm,” Regris says.

“Unfortunate. The pilot?”

“KIA.”

“Quiznak,” Kolivan grumbles.

“We are recovering its flight recorder and transponder presently.”

His broad shoulders droop. “I suppose it’s all we can do.”

“The Princess will not believe we did not shoot it down ourselves. Just like the last time.”

“Your input is duly noted, but we have to keep trying. Thank you.”

Regris straightens, and bows forward with an arm crossed over his chest. When he turns and steps from the dais, he staggers after he nearly bumps into her in his haste.

“Krolia? I didn’t know you were back,” he remarks.

Kolivan cocks his head at the exchange, and turns about fully. When the three-eyed gaze of his mask settles on Krolia, he says, “Go get yourself warmed up, Regris.”

Regris takes the hint, and after dipping his head in another short bow, and leaves the two of them alone.

“Approach,” Kolivan says.

Krolia does so, stepping up to the dais. She does not kneel, however, but does offer a similar bow of her chin, and an arm across her chest.

“Leader Kolivan.”

“This is quite unexpected. To what do I owe the visit? I don’t remember recalling you back to headquarters.”

“You didn’t.”

“Then for what good reason have you returned? I am quite preoccupied these days, so if you must speak, then speak, Krolia.”

“It’s about the Empire’s recent movements. Thace has confirmed what we already suspected.”

“Oh?”

“We think the time has come to where it would be prudent to embed someone in Terra.”

A pause. “Is that so?”

“The Empire’s recent victories against Altea have made them bolder. We know their sights have expanded as a result.”

“And is that a definitive statement, or is it merely speculative?”

“More the former than the latter. It is a fact that they will need considerably more natural resources to expand their fleet if they intend to occupy Altea. Someone with access to Terran intelligence could inform us as to desirable regions ahead of any incursions. And perhaps…” She hesitates.

“Perhaps?” Kolivan prompts.

“Perhaps we could even consider extending our hand in friendship, and persuade them to abandon their neutrality. Perhaps a demonstration of our goodwill would also persuade Princess Allura to take our entreaties more seriously.”

“A friendship with Terra? Krolia, I sincerely hope you did not come all this way, and brave death at our doorstep, only to waste both our times.”

“Terrans are a loose-lipped, capricious people. Their very natures predispose them towards violating our principles of secrecy and trust. I know you feel this way. But I know they can also be as brave, cunning, and determined as any Galran warrior when they have a cause to believe in.”

“And I presume you would volunteer yourself to be our eyes and ears.”

Krolia says, “I would make an obvious choice. I know Terra better than anyone in our organization.”

“And you know me as well, Krolia, so do not to presume that I am a fool.”

“I presumed no such thing.”

“Right. Obvious you may be, but do not deny your personal stake in this. It is as plain to me as your missing blade.”

Krolia sighs. “I do not deny that I would be grateful for the opportunity, sir.”

“Then you understand why my answer is no.”

“Sir!”

“I cannot spare you. Not for something that would take several pheobs at minimum to pay off, and for what I see as a marginal gain for our cause. Our top priority remains an alliance with Princess Allura. Time is simply not a luxury we have.”

“Time? Are you referring to the just as many wasted phoebes working the same strategy over and over, pretending as if one day the Princess will one day pay you any mind?”

Her jab strikes true as Kolivan takes a step forward, puffing out his chest. “For your sake, I will choose to ignore that thoughtless remark. Even if yours were a sound strategy, you would be my last option. You are too emotionally compromised.”

She doesn’t budge nor shrink from his three-eyed mask. “Emotionally compromised,” she repeats, spitting the word out like poison. “You wouldn’t have the faintest idea of what that means.”

“You are out of line.”

She huffs. “For once, sir, you could try acting a little bit more like a Terran. You sound so much like a Galra I can’t stand it sometimes.”

““The needs of our organization far outweigh personal ones. That has never changed. Every Blade knows and accepts this but you, apparently. “

“Have you ever once considered that it’s you who is compromised? You who have killed off your every last emotion to where you can no longer understand your friends, let alone those whose friendship you desperately seek?”

“This line of discussion is unproductive. If you have nothing else but childish insolence to hurl at me, then we are through here. I bid you return to your assignment at once.”

She reaches, curling her fingers around the lip of her hood and draws it back. Her mask flickers, then dematerializes. Through her violet bangs, she pierces him with her gold-tinted gaze. “I will not.”

“You cannot refuse.”

“Or what?”

Kolivan draws back from her ever so slightly. “You would dishonor yourself.”

“Is that all?”

He then takes a full step back from her. “I see there is no conflict in your eyes. If your mind had been made up, then why come here at all?”

“I am a bladeless Blade. It is no secret that this offends you. But unlike your regard for me, I still consider you my friend, Kolivan.”

He dips his chin. “I see.”

“Since you loathe my presence so much, I thought you might be pleased at the chance to be rid of me.”

His head snaps up, and he rips the hood from over his head. His three-eyed mask vanishes, revealing a pale face marred with creases. “Your emotional attachments are an exploitable weakness in our line of work. Now, I am losing you to them. _That_ is what I loathe, because I consider you one of our most proficient associates. That is why I entreated you to return to our cause-- despite your unconventional choice of mate, despite the blade you left behind. Did you not come back for their sake? Do you not still want to keep them safe?”

Her face falls, and her shoulders droop with it.

“Sir, my husband is dead.”

Kolivan reels back as though he had been physically struck. “Then...why?”

“My son. He is still out there somewhere. Alone.”

He settles back onto his heels, turning his face away. Sighing, “I see. Then know that as your leader, I cannot condone your decision. If you return to Terra, then it cannot be as a Blade operation. You will be without any Blade support. We will disavow any knowledge of you should you be captured or worse.”

“I understand, sir.”

Then, he turns back to her. “But as your friend, it seems that it is in our mutual interest that I accept your resignation effective immediately. And as your friend, know that I am displeased. No, I’m angered. But I will be even moreso if you do get yourself captured or killed. Therefore, as your friend, you will contact me directly should you need my help.”

Krolia smiles, and she reaches out to place a gentle hand on his broad shoulder.

“Thank you. And I say this as a friend: having a heart suits you much better.”

He huffs. “I would try harder if I thought it would change your mind.”

“Tempting.”

No mask could hide the affectionate tinge when he says, “Right.”

She retracts her hand from him and slips the hood back over her head. “Then this is goodbye, old friend.”

“I hope that you will find him. Perhaps even one day, you might introduce him.”

She smiles. “Perhaps.”

* * *

 

At first she felt ridiculous about waving to strangers. Worse was the idle conversation. All the pleases and thank yous. For most Galra, friendliness was synonymous with obsequiousness, of insincere flattery to gain an advantage whether personal or political.

It turns out being friendly was still something the latter in Terran culture, but what made the difference was the expectation of sharing equally in a mutual benefit. Or, sometimes, without any expectation of benefit at all.

 _Why_ , she often wondered. Why waste the energy if not to maximize your advantages in society? Terrans didn't seem to really know the answer themselves, reflexive in their rituals rather than thoughtful.

She might have never given it more thought either, if not for that warm Terran hand helping her out of her downed ship all those deca-phoebs ago.

To rescue _her_ , a Galra. Where, to the rest of the world, risking his life to save a scorpion might have seemed less absurd. He had called it compassion which, at the time, she thought was simply another word for foolish.

In the game played under Galran rules, his foolishness would have earned him the right to demand anything from her. Instead, he only asked, as if refusal were an option for her. Even then, he asked of her only three things. One, that she take good care of that twisted ankle. Second, that she give this compassion a shot, as he would say. Then eventually, after the ankle had healed, for her hand.

For her to have agreed, she must have been as foolish as he was.

The question of _why_ stopped haunting the back of her mind. At the same time, the ridiculous gestures and social customs started to make an eerie sort of sense. The kind of trusting benevolence she had considered a weakness was actually quite astonishing in its nerve. It was as if to say, even _if you turn around and sting me, I’m okay with it._

She wasn’t prepared for the sting of his death. Nor the ache. Even if she never fully understood this compassion, it was one thing that kept him alive with her. She would continue, always, to give it a shot.

* * *

 

She thought finding him would be easy. In her mind’s eye, she would ask around for Keith Kogane, get some directions, and then show up at his doorstep, or wherever he had drifted off to. Maybe he would embrace her, maybe she would kiss the top of his head, breathe in his scent like she had when he was small enough to cradle in her arms. Once they got over their mutual joy, they’d catch up on their lives.

Only in the moment she set foot back on Terran soil did it hit her how unlikely that scenario was. Laughably so.

She only remembered him as a baby. He was too young to remember her at all. What if he had gotten into trouble? And what if he hadn’t? Then she, not just a stranger but a Galra, had shown up as if someone tossed a live grenade on his doorstep? Not to mention that for her to wonder what he looked like now, no longer an infant but fully grown, sent a bolt of ice through her. Even if he accepted her as his mother, could he ever accept her absence?

To her shame, she idled in Terra. Her pride prevented her from returning to Kolivan, figurative tail tucked behind her. She didn’t know what else to do.

Deca-phoebs of wisdom and instincts hadn’t abandoned her, at least. They accompany her as faithful old servants might a wandering lord, keeping her baser impulses in check with humble and timely advice. They hold her upright and moving through troubling revelations and improbable outcomes, situations that were part and parcel in her line of work. Former line of work, but even without the excuse, surprises still happened all the time.

Surprises such as the Black Lion appearing on Terran soil, and that a Terran had been its pilot. A Terran who, according to national press, had been missing in action and presumed dead.

Never presume, experience tells her as she lifts her binoculars. Through them, she watches as the first Diba-tech helicopters arrive to drop off a bevy of rifle-toting androids. The buffet kicks up a squall of dust as they surround the Lion at rest on its belly. Ducking behind the outcrop, she heaves a sigh. _I told you so, Kolivan._

Herald of a calamity to be sure, but it kicked her out of idle at least. First and foremost, she needs to locate this pilot.

Tire marks in the parched dirt lead from the Lion to the outskirts of the Terran’s Garrison, its military headquarters, where they had erected a single pale dome in the desert sand. A temporary quarantine cell, she figures, if the gathered array of Garrison supply trucks and personnel in hazmat suits offer any clue. After ‘borrowing’ one such suit of the back of a truck, she confirms with one of the technicians that the pilot, Officer Takashi Shirogane, was awaiting his surgery. _Surgery?_

“Yeah. There’s some weird Galran tech attached to him.”

She blinks. “I’d like to see it.”

“Heh, not yet. The Admiral’s still in there with him. I can’t believe he’s even alive. This is _so_ surreal.”

The doors open, and out comes what must be this Admiral, an intimidating figure if only for the fact that she is the only one who lacks a suit. A heavy scowl mars her face, and she hands something off to a technician before climbing aboard one of the trucks parked nearby. A pair of guards with rifles stay behind to flank the doorway.

Detach, her training counseled. No matter how delicate or incredible the circumstance, react purposefully and dispassionately. _Surgery_ , she thinks, as she moves to the nearest supply truck fetches up a surgical box. _Knowledge or death_ , as she heads for the dome.

Nothing - not even a hundred deca-phoebs of accumulated experience and wisdom - could have prevented the surge of half-buried Galran instincts when the handle of her blade is thrust into her gloved hand.

Some meaningless order to return it to secure storage along with the rest of the pilot's confiscated gear accompanies it, but by then she had thrown the blade into the box, as if it could stop her professional curiosity from mutating into an all-consuming pursuit. The sight of its jagged rune sent her into shock just as if she had been skewered with it.

She had been away from her raven-haired kit for so long, that the sudden surge of maternal instincts ambushes her. She so desperately wants to see him. Something primal thrashes within her, hard against her ribcage, a generational legacy of anger, pride, and hatred battling for dominance.

They continue to clash with her higher brain as she charges for the dome, contraband in tow. The guards give her a glance, and wave her through. She sees red, hating having to fly into a situation blind, but she had little idea nor care for what challenge this presumed dead soldier might pose, or even what he looked like.

As she blinks back her fury long enough to look down at this patchwork individual, she realizes her imagination could not have been up to the task anyway.

Aside from the wicked-looking prosthesis lying at his side, the white tuft sprouting from a black head of hair stands out as the most peculiar in comparison with other Terrans. However, it's the knotted arc across the bridge of his nose that she lingers on the most, as if it were the scrawl of a timeless language that she could only understand too well.

Above it, and gray as a fog, his eyes swirl with surprise and alarm at the blade's hilt. Then, at her. “Who are you?"

She replies, voice as steady as she can manage, with what resonates like an echo of the same question: "Officer Takashi Shirogane, was it?”

"What do you want?"

"I'll ask you again. How did you come to have this dagger?"

"Why should I tell you?"

Combined with the rest of him, there was one thing her gut assessment was certain of-- hardship had stamped itself all over him. She catches herself in another curious stare at his scar and tears herself away. Metal clinks as she lowers the dagger back into the box, her hand shaking. "Because I have to know."

“You have to?”

“Just tell me.”

“I can’t. You could be one of Haggar's masked minions for all I know.”

Surprises happened all the time, and it stands to reason that a man looking like he does might have several. “Explains some things,” she tells him, looking him over again. "I didn't think people survived her druids.”

"If you call this surviving," he says bitterly. He shoots her a look. "How does a Garrison tech know about them, anyway?"

She weathers his mistrustful eye, even when the fog crystallized into ice. Perhaps to rattle and test her as well, but his unsteady breathing belies his bluster. If even half of what she knew about the druids' practices were true, that sort of hardship went well beyond her conventional definition. Theirs was the kind of hardship that had cleaved and stitched people back together into some haphazard approximation of whoever they were before.

"I am no druid, and I have no loyalty to the Empire. I’m not here to hurt you," she tells him, leaning over him. "Not unless you did something to the one who carried that blade."

He doesn’t cower, nor even turn his cheek. Defiant, he says, "I didn't steal it, if that's what you're accusing."

In the bedlam of warring emotions, the Galran within her nearly breaks loose. Her throat contracts on the urge to hurl the word _liar_ like a spear. She itches to hold her blade to his throat and demand he tell her everything. What advantage did he think he would gain here? He was in no position to refuse anything.

Seething, her gaze falls to his blackened arm. Strangely, her focus on its intricate seams and rivets cools her ire. That word floats through her mind. _Compassion._

“It really bothers you,” the pilot observes, and she snaps to meet his eyes. She regrets it, if only because she has seen a similar expression directed at her once before. As if he were holding his hand out to her in the midst of a cloud of smoke. This was not the behavior of one who had been broken. Either the druids had been sloppy, or they had finally encountered something they couldn’t pull apart.

This man is Terran, after all, in a Terran facility within Terran borders. Galran solutions ought to have no place here. Especially when those gray eyes hold a stormy mix of elements that, intrusively, makes her think of that lonely mountain.

She wouldn’t leave this man to burn. The battle within her quiets without a victor, save for a vague throb of pity-- no, of compassion.

Maybe she’d give it a shot.

“I believe you,” she says.

Like magic, the hard set of his brow softens.

She continues, "If I help you, will you tell me what I wish to know?"

He answers without hesitation: "If you can get me out of here and to the Black Lion, I'll tell you everything."

“Everything?”

He nods. "But how? You've cased the security. There have got to be guards posted outside."

"Yes, two of them. They should not be a problem. There are trucks outside, so we'll need to locate keys."

"No need. I can talk you through hotwiring one. They’re ridiculously simple," he says, energized by the plan. The enthusiasm infects her with smile, and can almost hear Kolivan's voice reminding her that a plan was just as critical to have in the field as her own blade. It was the confidence that preserved lives.

Her sensitive ears twitch.  They pick up voices and footsteps. Terran surgeons. When green light of the doorway flashes, she snatches up the dagger from the box, and steps between him and the door. “Then lie still, and get ready to move fast.”

"Don't kill them, please," he urges from behind her. "They're just doing their jobs."

The doorway slides open, and a trio of technicians flood in. One of them holds an IV kit, and another a tray of syringes. The third steps forward, their mask tilting toward the blade in her hand. He says, "What are you doing? State your name and rank."

It takes less than two steps and a hard elbow to his back to send him barreling forward into the foot of the exam bed. His head collides with it, and he drops like a stone.

Her swift dispatch of their fellow , the one with the syringes drops the tray with a hard clatter, but not before plucking one to rush her with. She flips the blade in her hand, wedges the flat of it against his knuckles, and with a snap of her wrist she pries the needle from his grasp. They grunt, then cry out when she next pinches their elbow and spins, sending them hurtling into the other technician.

The harsh lights dim to red, and the blare of alarm envelopes them.

"What's going on in there!" The door rushes open again, and a pair of guards with masked helmets and rifles storm in. "Stop!" they order. Their muzzles snap to her.

Her battle lust crackles like electricity, arcing through her grip on the dagger. Its luxite resonates, the living metal shifting and lengthening with a blinding gleam. Its wide belly and tapered point anneal in the same moment she delivers two clean slashes. The metal shears in half, and following brief melee later, the guards join the fallen pieces on the ground.

She nearly sighs with joy at being reunited with that pure, perfect balance in her hand. She missed it. She missed it so much. But when she turns around to free her charge, she finds him staring at her, his expression frozen with utter shock.

“What?” she prompts.

His throat bobs. “Krolia.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry 'bout these cliffhangers but this chapter KICKED my butt and I'm just happy to be able to update within a reasonable period of time. As always, thanks for being patient!


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank y'all for waiting with this update. This is the longest TO DATE and I made it extra huge because I didn't want to end on a cliffhanger again because I know how shitty that can be lol. Enjoy!

Red light suffuses them.  The alarm horn blares. Yet neither of them move a muscle, the name leaving his lips casting a flash freeze over the both of them.  
  
"I'm right, aren't I?" Shiro says.   
  
The dazzling sword in her hand sings in reply.  In a swift flurry, the straps over his person split and fall aside.  She reaches up and removes her filter mask, and pulls down the hazmat suit's hood.  All at once, the telltale gold of her gaze, the wild cut of her hair, and violet skin of a Galran are revealed, cheeks marked with mirrored dark stripes painted from cheek to jaw.      
  
"You are full of surprises Mr. Shirogane," she says, coming to his side.  She wedges herself under his right side to help hoist him upright. They both strain with the heavy weight of his metal arm.  Even through her Galran features, his heart wrenches at the resemblance to the person wrapped around her shoulders.   
  
"Just Shiro," he tells her.  "And I don't have the monopoly on surprises.  I had been told you were missing."   
  
That takes her aback as he throws his legs over the side of the bed.  Out of all the questions she could possibly ask him, however, she says, "Can you walk, Shiro?"   
  
He unravels from her with a precarious wobble, his head swimming in a brew of of leftover sedative, the weight of his inert arm, and a touch of dizziness from standing.  He blinks it back, and after a shallow squat, his legs hold his weight. "Yeah."   
  
"Then let's hurry."   
  
It must be the shock, or simply the clamor of the alarm urging him to keep moving, but he swallows down what feels like one hundred of his own questions ready to burst from him as they slip out the door.

Immediately, a throng of suited technicians bar their way.  They fall upon them and attempt hand-to-hand, but she's a whirlwind of grace as she disarms and throws each of them aside.  Shiro can do little more than stagger behind, darting between cover in her wake.   
  
'Keith,' Shiro thinks, leaning the weight of him against a row of steel cylinders.  'It's her! How in the world can you still be asleep for this?'   
  
“Clear!” she calls to him.  The distant chop of helicopter blades makes him tense, and it spurs him out from cover, careful to step over the leg of an incapacitated technician.

Her back slams against the passenger side of a truck.  She's still breathing hard when he joins her. With a wordless glance, she puts away the sword at her belt and offers him a step up.  She heaves him, and after wedging his other foot into a track of the truck's tires, he hoists himself into the passenger side of the cab.  
  
With his good hand, Shiro feels beneath the steering column for panel clips and pops the panel open.  Without missing a beat, Krolia jumps into the driver's seat and slips beneath the dash.   
  
"Leftmost bundle," he says.  Apparently, that’s all she needs to know.  With the point of her dagger she carefully strips the correct wires, and with a spark an a rumble, the truck shudders to life.   
  
"Got it," she calls, revving the engine.  After a gear shift she guns it. The truck lurches forward and kicks up a plume of dust as they speed away from the scene.

His white shock of hair whips across his eyes with the breeze blowing through the open windows of the cab.  Calling out over the noise he remarks, "I guess Kolivan really does have eyes and ears everywhere."  
  
She scoffs.  "Or perhaps I'm not here on his behalf.  How do you know him, or who I am for that matter?"   
  
"It's a long story but..." He touches his opposite wrist.  "You're right about one thing. You have to know."

She puzzles, but bites back a reply when the two-way radio nestled in the dash crackles.  

_All hands, Pilot has escaped.  Repeat, Pilot has escaped with the aid of an accessory who is armed and dangerous.  Current heading north-northeast bound, over._   
  
Another voice responds.   
_  
_ _All hands, this is Admiral Sanda.  Team Bravo, status? Over._

_Bravo en route, over._

_Use whatever means necessary to secure the asset.  We need his arm intact. Everything else secondary.  Repeat, use whatever-_   
  
He reaches, cutting the radio off.  "Quiznak," he breathes.

Krolia glances over.  "Just what the hell is that thing?  Sounds like they're prepared to kill you for it."  
  
"Like I said, long story."   
  
"I bet.  Let's start with how the pilot of this Black Lion not only knows my name, but came to have my family's blade in his possession?"   
  
"Ulaz,” Shiro answers simply, as if it explained everything.   
  
" _Ulaz?_ "   
  
Shiro squeezes his eyes shut, blinking back the associated tidal wave of regret.   "He...he got me out. He said to tell you he was sorry. And so am I. Ma'am, I am so sorry."  His heart leaps into his throat. "It's my arm. It's...he's..."   
  
Krolia voices what he thinks is a _he?_ , but the thunder of helicopters muffles her and swallows up every other sound.   He looks up as they descend, flinching when a violent gust sends up a spray of sand into the cabin.   Two swoop down on either side of their flanks, carrying gunmen with heavy rotating guns pointed at the truck’s cabin.   

A megaphone blares:  "Stop and surrender immediately!  We are authorized to use lethal force.  I repeat, stop and surrender, or we will open fire!  This is your only warning!”

Her response is clear and direct.  She guns it.

He plasters against the back of his seat when in reply, Krolia shifts gears again and pushes the gas pedal flat.  Gun muzzles flash. He ducks his head as she weaves them between the salvos, sprays of bullets peppering the ground and punching deep welts into the truck’s armored chassis.

She fights for control of the wheel when the hits make the truck shudder.  "Any ideas how to lose them?" she shouts across the din.  
  
"This area’s full of decommissioned mines and depots.  We should look for a service road. Cliffs should give us some cover!" 

On cue, they rush past an aluminum sign listing on its posts, its writing having faded into pale smudges over time.  Bullets punch and tear through it as they pass. “Left up ahead!” Shiro calls, his eye zeroing in on a shallow slope cut through the rugged landscape.  A rocky bluff thrusts up from the windswept landscape as though a harbor in the storm.

But just ask Krolia jerks the wheel left, a deafening pop and boom heaves their forward left corner, and everything begins to spin.  

He braces.  Krolia shakes with the effort to maintain a semblance of control over the wheel, but the shredded rubber littering their wake lances him with dread. The truck slides through the endless dirt, teetering and tottering on its remaining wheels before it finally sways to a stop, having been turned in the opposite direction.

He remains still, waiting for any unnoticed injury to erupt.  When none appears, he looks over to Krolia.

“Quiznak, are you okay?” he asks.  

A dark trickle of blood rolls down from her scalp and over her temple.  She shares a look with him, her hand coming to touch her gash. She hisses, but says, “I’m okay.  Just a cut.”

The noise of the helicopters recedes, replaced by the distant roar of vehicles.   Her hand flies to the hilt of her blade when there, on the crest of a rolling hill, a convoy of armored cars and an armored personnel carrier descend like jackals upon a carcass.

“You could still run, right now,” Shiro tells her.  “Or make up something to convince them to let you go.”

“What?”

“You did the best you could for me, and I appreciate it.”

Her brow knits as she stares at him, and as if he had just suggested she thrust the point of her dagger straight into his eye.    Her pointed incisors flash when she then says, “Knowledge or death.”  
  
In a blink, she’s already gone from the cab.  Her blade gleams, morphing into its elegant sword form as she marches for the oncoming convoy.  He calls out to her, nearly falling face first out of the cab in his haste to pursue and stop her.  There was no way to win, even with her skills and an enchanted sword. This wasn’t knowledge or death, it was just plain _death._

But the time for escape had passed.  As the cars roll up on them, a voice calls out:  "Stop there! Drop your weapon!"

Shiro tenses at that voice, but his curiosity blooms for less than a tick before being snuffed out when the first two cars drift to a swift halt before Krolia.   The remaining two circle back around behind him and the crippled truck.

In a display of perfect coordination that might make a Galran general proud, a team of gunmen rise and file out from the back of the car.  The commanding officer hops down from an armored car to join them. His tinted face shield makes him and his squad appear as lifeless as the Empire’s robotic troops.  The armored personnel carrier parks a short distance behind them, no doubt with reinforcements on standby.

Krolia halts when the line of soldiers raise their rifles in a firing squad.  Shiro catches up to her just as she brings her sword up in a defensive posture, as if she means to take them all on.  For him. The sight makes his chest ache with crushing guilt once more.

One of the soldiers hesitates, trembling with nerves.  "A Galra?" he says. When his trigger finger twitches, it sparks Shiro to take a step between them.  
  
"Wait!" he says, holding out his human hand to them.  To the commanding officer, he says, "I don’t know what the Admiral has told you, but you have to let us go.”

“The Admiral made her orders clear.”

Shiro reels.  He _knows_ that voice, but still can’t quite place it.  He says, “I know. I know how it is. But I wouldn’t ask-- no, _beg_ you to disregard an order if it didn’t contradict what we are sworn to as officers: to serve and protect Terra and her people.”

“And do you consider your actions as serving and protecting Terra?”

Suddenly, it clicks.   "Adam?"  
  
The commander sighs.  He brings a hand up and lifts his face shield and retracts it.    "Takashi.”

Adam’s face, and the sound of his given name knocks the breath from him.  Wide-eyed with recognition, his surprise wanes quickly as the circumstances of their reunion soaks through his skin like a cold rain.  He shivers. "Adam, I-,"

Adam frowns, his gaze tortured.   “What happened to you?"  
  
Shiro bows his chin as solemn memories swirl.  "A lot."   
  
“Clearly."   
  
"This isn't your fault.  None of it is," Shiro says quickly.   
  
Adam thrusts his chin toward Krolia.  "And who are you?"   
  
"An enemy of Zarkon," she answers.  "Which makes me an ally to Shiro. I gave him my word, and I don’t intend to run from it.  So for the sake of you and your crew, I suggest you stand aside."   
  
"Not all Galra support the Emperor.  They and Princess Allura will stand with us, too, if we fight instead of appeasing him," Shiro adds.  "The last thing the Garrison should do is give the Black Lion over to Zarkon. He'll never honor any peace."   
  
Adam huffs.   "I don't think I'll ever understand what it is about you that inspires others to fight to the death for you.  But as I said, the Admiral gave me an order.”   
  
"I know.  But you’re not the Admiral, Adam.  You _know_ me.  I would surrender to you in a heartbeat if I didn’t sincerely believe in what I was doing.”   
  
Conflict wars on Adam's face.  His frown deepens as he looks away.   
  
Shiro takes another step closer.  "Adam, I know I hurt you. To know that...someone you love, would do something so reckless with their life.  I know how you must feel."   
  
Adam then whips back to him.  He says, "There you go again, always thinking you know how I feel."  His blood ices at the edge in his voice. The soldiers before him tense.  Krolia shifts beside him, the precarious tension seeming to be on the verge of exploding.  "Sanda told us you were dead, you know."   
  
Shiro nods.   
  
"And that you were the reason Kerberos failed."   
  
"Make sense.  Convenient to pin it all on a dead guy."   
  
Adam scowls.   “And if it weren't for you, and seeing you with my own eyes, I might have believed her."  He raises his hand. "All personnel, stand down."   
  
"Sir?" one of the guards asks, but all of them dutifully lower their muzzles.   
  
Adam looks at Shiro squarely and says, "I'm angry, and I'm hurt, and I couldn’t give a damn about the Black Lion or the Emperor.  But thanks to Sanda and the rest of command who followed in lockstep, I've had a lot of time to grieve you. In the event you escaped, she ordered me specifically to hunt you down you know.”

“Why?”

“Why else?  Because she thinks I’ll say anything to get you to come back.  And that your guilt will make you listen.”

Shiro’s throat closes.  At loss for words, worst case scenarios circle in his mind like buzzards.  Finally, he says, “If that’s the case, then what are you going to do?”

“That if Sanda were half as shrewd as she thinks she is, she would know I was the worst choice to send.”

Shiro perks up at that.

Adam continues, “Aside from mourning, I also had a lot of time to think about what Kerberos meant to you.  Didn’t make it any less reckless to my mind, but...you were honest. It was true to yourself. And it make you happy for once.  You always came alive talking about it."  
  
Shiro flinches when Adam tosses something to him, and he fumbles to catch it with one hand.  It jingles, and he looks down to where he pinned it to his chest. A set of keys.   
  
"And if you can’t help that trouble makes you happy, it seems I can't help but enable you," Adam says, nodding his head towards the car he had arrived in.   
  
Shiro gapes, staring down at the keys.  "But...Adam, no. You'll be court-martialed.  And the rest of you. You could all be discharged if not jailed."   
  
One of the soldiers steps forward and retracts his face guard.  “Speaking freely, sir, I don't think any one of us really wants to be the one to fire on you anyway.  Right?” When a chorus of _yeahs_ answer him, he says, “You're the reason most of us joined up!"

Shiro asks, “Is that…? _Griffin?_ ”

The soldier salutes, a wry smirk on his lip.  “James Griffin, sir!”  
  
Another steps forward, and retracts their mask. "I joined because of you, too," she says.  “Ina Leifsdottir, sir!”   
  
Then, a chorus of echoes follow.  A Ryan Kinkade and a Nadia Rizavi declare themselves, followed by more as each soldier steps up and retracts their masks.  Shiro can do little more than gape dumbly at all the bright and youthful faces. He shuts his eyes, the overwhelming astonishment making him almost dizzy.  

All those ridiculous pamphlets, all those over-rehearsed sales pitches float through his mind.  He tips, catching himself when he almost loses his already-uncertain footing.  
  
The demonstration lifts the dour expression from Adam’s handsome face, transforming it into something far more fond.  He shrugs. "Besides, whatever corrective action command deems fit won't matter much if Zarkon does what he likes anyway, will it?"   
  
Shiro grins, then passes the keys over to Krolia.  He says, "Careful, or I might just have to kiss you."   
  
"Don't push your luck," he replies with a playful smirk.   
  
Shiro’s smile fades, however when he says, "I promise you, Adam.  Once this is all over, I'll make it right for you. All of you. Whatever it is I have to do."   
  
"I know you will.  Better hurry along-- Sanda's going to wonder by now why we haven't reported you and your friend as tagged and bagged yet."

“Just blame the failure on me if it’ll mitigate anything.  Sanda already loves to.”

“Ouch, wish she could have heard that.  But hey, Takashi?”

A long look draws out between them.  Love, Shiro knows, is what’s making his chest ache.  Or at least the memory thereof, lingering as a faint but undying affection, even as destiny seemed resolute in splitting them apart.  

“Don’t die, okay?” Adam says, his voice rough and jagged.  In the next moment, he lifts his hand and pulls down the face guard, and gestures for his men and women to disperse.  


* * *

 

Krolia suggests they find somewhere to hide until nightfall.    
  
Shiro almost asks why, but she reasons that the Black Lion would be well-fortified by now.   In addition, sympathetic Garrison troops notwithstanding, they were still fugitives on the run.  The cover of darkness offered them the best chance.   
  
He sinks back into the passenger seat.  Despite the wisdom in it, his practiced patience can't loosen the knot twisting in his gut when he thinks about the loss of valuable time.  Still, when he looks over and spies the dried cut threading down over her forehead from her scalp, he relents.   
  
"Neither of us are in great shape right now anyway, I guess," he says.   
  
"Hopefully they won't have moved the Black Lion back by then.  What do you plan to do when we get you to it, anyway?" she asks.   
  
He leans against the car door.  "To be honest, I have no idea. The Lion won't work without our bond.  I get needing time, I just wish he would _talk_ to me.  He should know by now that his confidence in himself won't work itself out alone."   
  
She puzzles at him.  Then, she points over the dash towards a long dirt path cut through the rugged land.  "What about there, up ahead?"   
  
The road, faded with disuse, takes them around a bend, and along a stretch parallel to the cliffside.  The sinking sun dyes the sky pink and orange by the time they reach a deserted depot. The cliffside yawns with the vaulted doorway of an emptied warehouse.  Outside, dunes are in the midst of swallowing up a weigh station and a truck garage. They shelter inside the latter, its rust-eaten roof pierced with slivers of rust-colored dusklight.  She pulls in, and kills the engine.   
  
"Should be a medkit in a compartment over the back right tire," Shiro tells her.     
  
As for himself, he goes around to the left side, fishing out an electric lantern from the compartment there.  He wobbles, but manages to slide down against the car and onto the concrete ground. His right arm lands with a heavy thud, and with a sigh he deflates back against the tire.   
  
He drifts off.  He doesn't notice he had even closed his eyes until something smacks atop his groin and he bolts awake, finding a protein bar in his lap.     
  
Krolia hovers above him, a strip of bandage patching up the gash on her head.  "Found a few alongside the medkit," she says. In similar fashion, she leans against the car and slides down to join him on his right side.   
  
"I don't-," he starts, but his stomach lurches and interrupts him with a telling growl.   He sighs and says nothing more, keenly aware of her cryptic gaze as he gathers up the packet in his lap.  He tears into the lump of lab-engineered nutrition, and accepts a canteen of water from her as well. Save for his chewing and swallowing, they otherwise sit together in silence as she waits for him to finish.     
  
Washing down with a final gulp of water, he hands the canteen back to her and says, "Thanks."   
  
"Sure," she says, taking a long pull off of it herself.   
  
"For sticking up for me, I mean.  Not running when you could."   
  
"We have an agreement.  I don't run from my word."   
  
"Still."   
  
She tilts her head, her eyes sweeping over him.  "That was really something to behold back there."   
  
"Hm?"   
  
She sets the canteen aside, and wraps her arms around her knees.  "I don't understand everything behind it, but you had the admiration of all those men and women.  They disobeyed orders for you. In the Empire, that would be a death sentence."   
  
Shiro sighs, his shoulders slumping.  "For their careers, it may as well be the same.  I think those Garrison advertisements might have been a little too persuasive.   Doubt they’re using my pictures and story anymore, though. Could you imagine?"   
  
"But then there was their commander.  Adam, was it?"   
  
"Yeah.  Adam. I had broken his heart."   
  
Krolia stays quiet for a beat.  She then says, "I think you should give them more credit.  They all accepted the risks. I don't think they would want you agonizing over it, either. Their decision was all about you, either.  They also wanted to send a message to this Admiral of yours."   
  
Shiro looks over to her, a little indignant, but the piercing truth in her words holds him at bay.  "She won't listen."   
  
"Maybe not.  Maybe not right away."  She sighs with a distant look in her eye.  "You're bound to upset someone when you act on what matters to you."   
  
"Don't I know it."     
  
His chest tightens.   _Don't die_ , Adam had said, but it seems to be all he’s good at.  There’s not a shred of confidence he can muster to counteract the guilt flooding his chest, especially when the tiresome weight at his side adds on another dose.   “I'm still not convinced I'm worth it. Look where one of them ended up," he says, nodding to his right arm.   
  
“What do you mean by that?”  When she draws back to follow his eyes, he expects her look of confusion.  "You call your arm a 'he'."   
  
"I mean that Haggar didn't just mutilate me.  She extracted someone's quintessence and infused him into this arm.  I don't understand the mechanism exactly, but it's how the Black Lion can operate.  It requires a cooperative relationship between two consciousnesses."   
  
"Who was he?"   
  
He pauses, his brow contorting with his own skepticism.  "You believe me? You believe that there's someone living in my arm?"   
  
"I'm open to the possibility.  And I believe The Empire's capabilities are only matched by their cruelty."   
  
"That’s true," he says.  His gaze drifts towards the bands of red dusky light hitting a row of empty tool racks installed along the far wall.  He follows those bands up towards the punctured, pockmarked ceiling, red gashes against a pane of black. "He was a cadet, and about to become a stellar officer.  He should be the one in all the ads instead, except that he, well. He was one tough sell to command." He lets his mind rove over memories of those surly frowns and pouty eyerolls.  "I recruited him after he stole my car.”   
  
She huffs out a laugh, and smiles.  “You must be a very patient soul.”   
  
“He certainly didn't make it easy, but in his case I think I sought him because he stole my car.  Even though he’s like that sometimes, I have never met anyone in my life with so much spirit, and nerve, and...and _fire_ .”   
  
"He must be something if he makes you smile that much to talk about him."   
  
"He is, yeah," Shiro starts, warmth flushing his cheeks.  "But I didn't know it was him until yesterday. All this time I thought he was just some unlucky Galran soldier.  It was a huge shock, so that's why he's not present right now."   
  
"If he wasn't a Galra, then how in the world did he cross paths with Haggar?"   
  
Bits and pieces of his nightmares invade him, the memories he holds like a pile of broken glass in his upturned palms.  The blood. The fear. The scars.   
  
He flinches, gasping.   
  
"Shiro," her voice calls, firm yet gentle.   
  
He swallows, forcing himself to look over to her.   The memory of that awful fact, and familiarity of her features bearing resemblance to that surly young man continues to stab at him like poison needles through his heart.  There's no escape from confronting this, even if she might tear his head off. At least she might make it quick. His lips tighten, and he takes a deep, shaky breath through his nose.   
  
"Shiro," she prompts, much firmer and in no way gentle.   
  
Summoning the last vestiges of his courage, he says, “That’s just it.  He is part Galran, and I'm starting to see where he gets his fire from.  Runs in the family, doesn't it?"   
  
Her eyes blow wide.  Her hard gaze scatters instantly, like a handful marbles on the floor, or diffused through fogged glass.     
  
"It's time we addressed the yalmor in the room, I think," he says.   
  
Her stare collapses again, her focus as sharp and deadly as a laser.  "You will explain. _Now_ ."   
  
"Okay, just-," he starts, having hoped that her desire for his blood might have been an exaggeration. "There's no good way to explain.  He...he did something stupid and amazing, and I swear to you I have taken care of him to the best of my ability."   
  
"Who?"     
  
"Though truthfully, he's been the one taking care of me."   
  
"Who!"   
  
He snaps to her when she leans across, her gaze pinning him to the tire at his back.   
  
"Keith.  His name is Keith."   
  
The name collides with her as if he had physically pushed her back.  Her stare goes blank once more as she falls back onto her haunches before him.  When she doesn't respond nor even blink, he continues, "They put his quintessence inside this arm.  I'm not sure what exact relationship you might have had, but Kolivan said the blades work through families, and-"   
  
"My son."  She looks down, her lip quivering.   "Keith is my son's name."   
  
Pain.  That horrible stabbing sensation - one that never fails to take him by surprise - pierces the base of his skull.  He cries out, clutching his left arm to his temple and pulling the hair at his scalp when the pressure blinds him.   Startled by his outburst, she leaps up from him.   
  
Then, he gasps, but not from the sudden ache.  His right arm twitches with life, and the blinding pressure inside his skull recedes.  When he cracks an eye open, he sees the hand at his side glowing softly, and pulses of red light flow through its veins.     
  
"Keith," Shiro says aloud, staring down at his hand.  It still feels as heavy as lead, but with some strain, he can turn his palm up.   
  
"Quiznack," Krolia breathes, transfixed on his rekindling limb.   
  
Faintly, he hears a word tickle in the back of his mind: _Mom._     
  
He shuts his eyes, then looks up to Krolia.  "He's asking for you."   
  
Her face twists, marred by anguish as she drops to her knees.  "It's-- _how?_  How do I know it's really him?"   
  
Shiro glances to the dagger at her hip.  "He can prove it."   
  
For a brief pause, he's unsure whether she will give over the dagger at all, unless it's to put it straight through his sternum.  But with a shaky hand, she rips the dagger from her belt, kneels down, and thrusts its hilt into his open palm.   
  
He strains to close his fingers around it, his joints grinding together like rusted machinery.  He thinks, 'Hey, buddy. Mom's here, but needs to know you're there.'   
  
The response is instant.  In a flash, the dagger transforms into its sword form.   
  
"No," Krolia says, tipping back onto her backside.   " _No!_ " she says again through gritted teeth.  "How...? Keith!"   
  
She lurches forward and reaches for him, gently wrapping her slender hand around his wrist.  With terrifying strength, her hand twists, wrenching his heavy wrist so she can snatch the sword up from his hand.  She leaps back and points the tip of the sword underneath his chin. "What did you do?"   
  
"I will explain-,"   
  
"You keep saying you're sorry, and that it was your fault.  Why? Why is my son in there!" she shouts, thrusting the tip towards his right arm.   
  
He gathers his feet beneath him.  He grunts as he struggles to raise his right hand to match his left in a show of surrender, and stands up slowly.  "Krolia, I am so sorry."   
  
The tip of the blade shoves closer to his throat, forcing him to plaster himself back against the car.  She says, "Stop. The next thing out of your mouth should be a good reason why I shouldn't slit your throat, cut off your arm, and take him far away from you, the Black Lion, everything!"   
  
His mind is quiet again, but he feels his hand down to his wrist heat up, sees its glow reflect in her eyes.  For a split second, she hesitates, dark pupils darting up then back.   
    
"Because he doesn't want you to," Shiro says simply.  His arm no longer feels so heavy-- in fact, it feels light.  So light, as if it weren't really there at all.   
  
She scowls, and with a snort of frustration, thrusts the blade forward.  But in that same second, Keith drops down, blocking its deadly point against his palm.   
  
"That's not me," Shiro tells her truthfully.  "He'll stop you if you try to kill me."   
  
She scowls again.  She rips her blade out and slashes across in an attack that would have fully decapitated him if not for Keith crossing over to block it.  She slashes again, and again, more and more swiftly, but more and more desperate. She grunts with frustration as each time, her edge glances off the fired-up knife of his hand.   
  
A silent sob rips from her throat after a final half-hearted strike, and she drops the sword with a clatter.  She grimaces, tears flooding down her cheeks. She convulses with silent grief, drawing into herself as she crouches down.   
  
_Mom,_ comes through in his mind, stronger this time.  Shiro stares down at her, sympathy wrenching at him as she continues to tremble.  But then, he glances towards the car with an idea wrapped in a ray of hope.

'Hey, Keith?  You with me?'

He doesn't hear so much as _feel_ an affirmative.

So he thinks, 'Think you can hack a Garrison car?'  
  
Keith's next answer comes through much more directly:  *Can _I_ hack a Garrison car, he asks.*   
  
The quip takes Shiro by surprise enough that he stifles a laugh-- barely.  She really would have killed him then.   
  
'Good to have you back,' he thinks.   
  
*Is that...?  Is that really my mom?*   
  
'She can use your sword and her first instinct was to murder me when I told her about you.  Yeah, I'd say she's legit. Bear with me, but I think I have an idea.'   
  
"Ma'am," he says, sobering as he squats down and extends his right hand, now cooled to its normal metallic color.  She doesn't look up at him, her arms wrapped around her knees. He sighs, and, when she doesn't move to stop him, he makes his way to the car's driver seat.      
  
*What are you doing?*   
  
'I want to plug you into the radio.'   
  
*I...oh.  I guess we could try it.*   
  
Hovering his right hand over the radio controls, Shiro places his palm flat against the receiver deck.   ‘How’s this?’ It must work well enough, because he shuts his eyes when he feels heat rise in his palm and bleed into the circuits beneath.  The deck alights, kind of. Its displays flicker, and the speakers whine and buzz with static.   
  
*This is a lot harder when the tech is not even in the same ballpark as the Black Lion,* Keith tells him.   
  
'Well, it was the best idea I had.  I'm going to pull back now.'   
  
*No!  Wait!*   
  
Shrill whines and buzzing continues to pour from the speakers when the passenger door opens.  Krolia slips in, unarmed and slumped with despair. "What are you doing?" she asks him when she sees his glowing hand pressed against the dash.   
  
But then, the whine and buzz fades as though having been tuned correctly, and the radio crackles out:  "Mom."   
  
She gasps, sitting forward.  "Is that-?” she starts, looking from Shiro and back to the dash.  “Keith? Is that really you?"   
  
The speakers continue to pop and crackle.  "Yeah. It's me."   
  
"Keith...I am so sorry."   
  
"It's not your fault.  It's not Shiro's either, so please stop trying to kill my best friend."   
  
A grim burst of laughter escapes her, and she glances again over to Shiro.  "No promises, so long as he's not forcing you in any way. Is he?"   
  
"That's not the way he does things.  He's not Zarkon."   
  
"No.  No, he's not.  But this isn't at all what I could have ever imagined."  She reaches out, touching her fingers to the deck’s display.  "I-...I should have stayed with you." Krolia covers her mouth, renewed tears rolling down her chin.     
  
The speakers sizzle for a beat before Keith replies, "I was angry.  I never really understood why you weren’t there. Dad had just said you were a firefighter, too, and that while he had to go away sometimes to fight all the little fires, you had gone away to fight one big, huge fire.  One that might take years to put out."   
  
"It's no excuse.  I missed your entire childhood, Keith."   
  
"But I know now that you were with the Blade.  You were fighting Zarkon, the biggest fire there is."   
  
"And that did keep me going.  Thinking of you both kept me going, kept me focused.  But eventually, it just wasn't a good enough excuse anymore.  I left the Blade, Keith."   
  
"You left?"   
  
"I came back to Terra to find you.  Something I should have done a long time ago."   
  
"Why didn't you?  Where were you?"   
  
"I'm Galran, Keith.  And I had left you. I couldn't bear it if you were afraid of me.  Or worse, if you hated me."   
  
After another crackle, Keith says, "I don't hate you."   
  
Krolia lets out a long, agonized breath.   
  
Keith says, "I don't hate Shiro, either.  He...he was there for me. He’s still here for me, and it’s better than I deserve."   
  
Shiro sucks in a breath when the words set off a chain reaction, anguish and awe bursting under his surface like depth charges.  His fingertips dig into the dash, and his head hangs, pulverized as though he might blow away with the sand. His eyes sting and his throat burns.   _He_ doesn't deserve it.  He doesn't deserve _him._   
  
His spine tingles, knowing that it’s Krolia's gaze roving over him as though she senses that he's a breath away from disintegrating on the spot.  Shiro still can't remember how to speak much less choose the right words, so she says, "I know he's good. I'm sorry for losing my temper earlier."   
  
"Then help us."   
  
She perks up, and so does Shiro.   
  
"If you're not with the Blade anymore, then help us beat Zarkon instead," Keith says.  "We still have to put out this fire, don't we?"   
  
"Yeah," Shiro says, glancing over to Krolia.  "Yeah, we do."

"You really mean that?" she says.

"I don't want to be a weapon."

“You _aren’t_ ," Shiro says.

“But so long as Zarkon wants the Black Lion, it’s a possibility.  Removing him is the only way the both of us and the Lion can really be free.  I want to be able to do the most good no matter what form I take, and Shiro...you're the only one who will make sure that I do."  
  
Krolia looks over, but Shiro’s struck dumb once more.  “Yes,” he finally whispers. “That’s a promise.”   
  
"Alright," she says.  "Then I’ll do whatever I can to support you both.  But we still have a little time before dark, and I want to hear exactly what happened between you.  From the beginning.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you all prefer these bigger updates, even if it takes me a bit more time? Or is smaller OK, with less time?


	20. Chapter 20

"Iverson did _not_ call you every two weeks!"

"Oh yes he did. Your first penta-phoebe? I could have set my watch to it. But by the second penta, they got fewer and far between."

"Not fair for you to count both personal _and_ academic conduct."

"Oh? Why shouldn't I?"

"Because I met my mother not even a varga ago, and already you’re embarrassing me in front of her?"

"The important thing is you got better. In every category."

Shiro grins when a scoff crackles through the radio. He can almost see the roll of Keith's eyes in his mind as they carry on in their spirited trip down memory lane.  He hopes Keith can sense his mother's smile beside them. It’s quiet, if a touch forlorn.  She had since shucked off the trappings of a Garrison hazmat tech, settling in the passenger side of the car much more comfortably in her Blade suit.  _Former_ Blade suit-- though the fact she still wore it tugs at his curiosity.

She brightens when they get into their sparring routines, and their stolen away hoverbike races outside the Garrison. Keith never got in trouble for those, Shiro promises her. Not on his watch.

“The times Iverson did think to question us about breaking curfew, I’d sometimes try to make up the most absurd story I could just to see if he’d ever call me out,” Shiro says.

“And did he?” Krolia asks, chuckling.

“No. The answer is no,” Shiro says, laughing. “I once told him we came across a hundred-deca-phoeb-old unexploded Galran landmine, and therefore we had to take our time to make sure it was properly disposed of.”

“I remember that,” Keith says with his own sputter of laughter. “I think he even praised you for your vigilance.”

Krolia shakes her head, grinning. “I’m not sure if that story is more absurd than the fact that he believed you.”

Keith says, “It was Shiro. Back then, a world in which star Officer Takashi Shirogane would tell a lie didn’t exist for anyone in Command.”

Her grin turns into a wide smile. Soberly, she says, "Thank you, Shiro.”

"For what?"

"Being there for him."

A surge of color from creeps up under his chin. "It was my privilege," he manages to say. There’s nowhere for him to hide the blush from her notice, but appreciates it when she reserves any remark on his discomfort.

The discussion soon leaves their carefree Garrison days behind as their recounted timeline shortens between the past and the present. Like a decaying orbit, there was no escaping the descent into certain topic: Kerberos. The pleasant nostalgia plummets the moment the word permeates into Shiro's mind, a word synonymous with the promise that he would leave his mark on the world. A promise fell on his head like a missile.

He's still too fragmented to explain, in his own words, what had happened between then and waking up in a Diba-tech lab with a missing arm. Keith has the clearer grasp of his side of events, so Shiro leans, pressing his right hand further into the dash as Keith recalls what he can through the car's servicable sound system. His perspective ties together a web of those scattered pieces, like he had done on that corkboard in the lonesome shack.

The healthy purple in Krolia's cheeks drains when Keith describes the druids in combat, the latter behaving more like unearthly demons crawling the earth as opposed to anything natural. Her pallor worsens when he describes his capture, the arena, and the cruel contest in which Zarkon pitted them against one another.  Consciously, Shiro only maintained the bits and pieces gleaned from his nightmares. 

He shudders.  Without warning, the scent of blood fills his nose, and all that blares in his ears are hollers and shouts for death. He screws his eyes shut tight, but bright lights assail him, and he hunches and trembles as though weathering a violent storm.

"We can stop," Keith says.

Whether it was just his voice, or something Keith touched in his brain, it nonetheless snaps Shiro back into the dark, quiet garage.  Weak odors of rubber and gasoline waft under his nose.  "No.   We can continue." he says, his throat dry. 

"You were the arena Champion?" Krolia says, astonished.

He grimaces at the title. The bottomless chasm that opens up in his chest whenever he hears it never fails to punch the air from him.  He swallows, trying to stay mindful of his breathing. 

"He hates it," Keith answers for him, in what sounds to his ear as both far too simple a statement, yet the only one that rang true enough.

"Because I hurt you, and I hurt people whose faces I can't even remember," he says. "I'm still not sure how could you still trust me to do right by you after what I had become.  After what I had done."

A pause lingers between them, but the dash alights with Keith's answer: "Because I had wondered the same thing after we first met. As a kid, and like this. But you trusted me anyway. Both times, and when you had every reason not to. You didn't even know me."

Shiro sits back. He supposes that's true.

Keith continues, "It's not you I'm worried about. It's Zarkon, and how he believes I'm meant to serve him. After what he's done, how could he ever think that?"

"Because he's insane, as are all of the monsters who aid him," Krolia says with generous coat of venom. Her brow twitches, and while Shiro is used to Krolia's scrutiny by now, the gaze she levels at him makes him worry that she was still wrestling with her own risk assessment. She turns from him, and the way the silence stretches, it feels something like reproach. That is, until she says, “Especially _her_. She is truly his match.”

“She?”

“Haggar."

Another face that makes Shiro's stomach lurch with dread. 

She goes on, "I'll never understand how Ulaz can tolerate his mission. I could not have worked alongside such a monster while undercover for long and not make any attempt to snuff her out and stop her crimes.” She clenches her fist. Her fangs flash. “And now? For what she did to my family?  I wish Kolivan would give him a kill order, and to hell with the intelligence.  There's always another way.”

"About Ulaz,” Shiro starts, his face falling.

Her expression falls with his when he delivers the fate of Ulaz with due solemnity.  She listens in stunned silence when he explains her comrade's role in their escape; of his journey to the Marmoran headquarters, the Trials; of Princess Allura, and the origin of the key. Then, lastly, of their brushes with Zarkon himself.

"Seems you are as lucky as you are resilient, then," she remarks.

"I'm not sure if I'd call any of it 'lucky'," Shiro says. “'Lucky' would have been if I had been convinced to stay home. If I had just been happy being the Garrison's trained monkey, Ulaz might still be alive.  Keith would still be whole.  He could have met you in the flesh one day, instead of while in a machine.  He would have graduated by now, and the Black Lion might still be sitting useless to Zarkon in some hangar bay.”

The radio crackles and pops.  Keith says,  "But you wouldn’t have been happy.  I know you.  The regret would have eaten you alive.”

"And you don’t think it does now?" Shiro shoots back, agitated.  His eyes burn, and his voice quavers.  "At least I would have suffered it alone had I stayed back. Now...now you've paid for it.  You're _still_ paying for it. Now, you’re bogged down with me."

He almost flinches when Krolia’s hand comes to his shoulder.  Whether he's surprised by her gesture or the gentleness of it, it nonetheless makes him even more acutely aware of the sting building behind his eyes.

She says, “It doesn’t sound to me like there’s anything to regret. From all I've gathered between you, I don’t think things could have happened any other way.”

“What do you mean?” Shiro asks.

She withdraws her hand. "What do you think, Keith? What would you have said if you knew he gave up on his dreams for your sake?"

The question douses Shiro like a shock of cold water. He snaps back to her, staring at those hard, golden eyes as he turns the question over, examining it as if it were a strange coin. With a mental huff of grim amusement, he thinks: _Something colorful, probably. He'd be upset with me._

"He already knows," Keith answers. In his discomfort, Shiro had momentarily forgotten about the direct pipeline he had to his thoughts.

“Say it anyway,” she asks him.

"I’d be pissed, and I’d call him an idiot," he says. “Because as grateful as I am for his concern, _nothing_ is worth his happiness.”

“Keith,” Shiro whispers, a flare of heat returning to his cheeks.

Krolia adds, "And you might blame yourself, like he is doing now. Given how much you looked up to him, you might have followed his example and stayed home. Given up. Do you think he would he have wanted that for you?"

Before Keith can answer, Shiro scoffs and says, “If it meant he would avoid being ripped out and stuffed into a machine? Are you asking if I think he would have ever wanted this for himself instead?”

“I’m asking if you think he would trade places with me, or with anyone else in the world right now if he could.”

Shiro reels. He wants to answer in a resounding _yes_. He wants to ask, to demand that she take another look at his miserable state and ask: _how could anyone in their right mind want this?_   “Well, he’s right here, isn’t he? Keith, would you?” he asks.

Pop, and crackle.  Keith answers, “Shiro, while I was...away, I thought a lot about all that's happened to us. I think if I had my stomach, I’d be sick at the idea of anyone else being in my place right now.”

The earnest sentiment gives Shiro pause, but not nearly as much as when he imagines the reverse-- that if _someone else_ were seated here instead, in the driver’s seat of the Garrison car. A flicker of rage takes him by surprise.  He can't stand the thought of anyone else bumbling through this, and unable to help Keith endure this strange and terrifying fate.  Not like _he_ can.  And selfishly, he wants to believe that no one else could.

“Me, too,” he admits, his heart thudding. “I wouldn’t trade places with anybody either, Keith.” His cheeks go from warm to burning as the confession leaves his lips. The sound of his own declaration digs past his reflexive defenses, plunging deep and releasing a pocket of truth: if there was anything in this world he might count on with any certainty, it was the singular dedication of the man caged at his side. This form, and being attached to his shoulder, could be interpreted as just a formality. His chest aches, wanting so badly to be able to reach out to him now and to hold him close.  Instead, he deflates with a heavy exhale.

Krolia says, "Despite all that’s happened, Shiro, I think that my son's best chance was in finding someone like you. In his time of need before, and his time of need now. He still needs you, Shiro. Not as a his hero, but as his friend.”

Shiro nods. “Always.”

She shifts in her seat, clearly musing on something.  Her gaze rakes over him with a glimmer of some abstraction turning over in her mind.  “You know, you remind me of something we Galra sometimes say."

"Oh?"

"That there are those who are wings, and those who are open sky.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes, and that the unity of the two represents limitless potential, in whatever form that may take. It is something many of us long for, even if the evils of the Empire would have you believe otherwise."

"Why are you telling me this?"

Her lip quivers.  "Because despite all of his suffering, and how much I wish he were still flesh and blood, I'm glad my son has found his open sky.”

“Mom,” Keith says.

Her fists tighten once more, and her eyes narrow to fine slits, “I know now I must reserve my anguish for Haggar and her thralls. She will not get away with what she’s done.” Then, her mouth tugs into a wry smile. “And without her, Zarkon will lose his wings.”

Shiro nods. "Then we should get moving.  It should be dark enough."

“Wait.  Hey, Mom?” Keith says, and they both turn their attention back to the radio.

“Hm?” she answers.

"Who was Dad? Wings, or open sky?"

"Open sky," she says immediately, her smile opening up, full and genuine. "Definitely open sky."

* * *

 

A persistent, cool breeze rolls in as the last sanguine hues of the sunset dissolve into starry ink. Glitter fills up every pocket of that black dome, save for starlight caught up in the soft aura of the half moon hanging large among its celestial neighbors. A half circle of brilliance merged with equal shadow.

He never gets tired of the mosaic, especially when paired with the gentle whisper of the wind. Tonight, he's grateful that the dazzling heavens favor their drive through the night-soaked landscape. He's also grateful for Keith being alert and active-- otherwise, they might have circled the endless barrens until dawn.  Instead, they have a compass in the telltale tug towards the Black Lion.  Navigation ceases to be a concern, however, once the first Diba-tech helicopter cuts a path across the sky, its belly glowing with violet streaks.

Its searchlight sweeps to and fro beneath its nose.  Its wide circuit spirals around an aura of pale light in the distance, where the stars begin to fade near the horizon. In their darkened vehicle, they maintain a healthy distance from the bird above, and once as near as they dare, Krolia parks them under one of the few trees dotting the landscape. They abandon it for a waist-high outcrop to shelter behind.

Shiro can't distinguish much from the distance, save for a pair of floodlights casting their harsh beams onto an established perimeter of Galran forces. Keith continues to pulse with their proximity to the Lion, but Shiro frowns when he cannot even pick out the red wings.

However, a gentle tap on his shoulder precedes Krolia coming to kneel down beside him, clutching a pair of binoculars. After a brief scan with them, she hands them off. Shiro's stomach drops as he performs his own scan, looking across a veritable parking lot of armored personnel carriers and humvees. They fan out around a large mass, the latter covered in an enormous sheet of tarpaulin, anchored down by a web of steel cables. The Lion, he realizes, blanketed as if it were a legendary beast felled and claimed by a big game hunter. Pairs of rifle-toting foot soldiers patrol near the prize.

The only consolation he can find is the little lonesome shack appears to be standing despite the overwhelming force camped just beyond its threshold.

"What do you think?" Krolia asks.

He lowers the binoculars, then sighs. " _Quiznak._ "

She huffs with grim concurrence. "Sentries will be posted at every eighth of their perimeter. Likely with thermal optics. We'll either have to look for a weakness in their guard, or plan a distraction."

"Wait, you said that nighttime would give us the best chance."

"The _best_ chance, yes. I did not say it wouldn't still pose a challenge," she answers with a shrug.  She stretches and chances a look over the outcrop. “I had hoped we might find more cover between us and them, but we'll think of something."

In Shiro's head, Keith asks, *What's the problem?*

'The Lion's heavily guarded.  Figures,' he thinks. 'And we're likely to get spotted if we venture much closer. Any suggestions?'

*All we have to do it just make it to the Lion, right? I'm ready to fight through whatever Galra we have to.*

Shiro feels Keith bristle, his will a sharp tingle in his fingertips. He smiles, and for a moment, he does consider the simple and direct brute force approach.

"If only we could get in close," Krolia mutters.

At that, his eyes widen. "Wait," he says.

"What is it?"

"Maybe we don't have to go to it."

Krolia cocks her head. "What do you mean?"

"Keith, can't we try bringing the Lion to us?"

"How?"

The breeze tussles his forelock as a ponderous beat ticks by. Keith answers him, *I don’t-...Maybe? It has tried to come to us before, and we've seen it respond even when we're outside the cockpit. But that was when we were in trouble. How do we command it now?*

'We don't command it,' Shiro thinks. He says, "Maybe we can ask it."

Another helicopter cuts across overhead, and he waits for it to pass. Then, he darts out from behind the outcrop, the disturbed air from its blades flecking his cheeks with sand.

"What are you doing!" Krolia snaps.

He holds Keith in front of him, closing his eyes as the noise and gusts recede. 'Focus with me, Keith. You know that weird pull?'

*Yeah.*

'Let's try to amplify it.'

*Okay. I'll try.*

Shiro closes his fist, and its violet glow ignites. He lets himself sink into the gentle warmth of it that radiates through his wrist, and down his arm.  As ticks go by, it travels further, suffusing his core and wrapping around to his back. Gentle as though it is, a point of pressure builds at the top of his spine, like a hot ember catching on tinder.

 _Please._ It’s both his word and it's Keith’s, a mutual desire he thinks not just with his brain, but with his every nerve come alive with their bond flowing from his fist.  Shiro focuses on the bridge of their minds, calling forth all the harp strings of memory that resonate between them. All the hands they've joined, the thrills they shared, all the sunsets they've witnessed. The ember builds, and builds.

_Please._

He gasps when a jolt races down his spine. It shoots out through his extremities as a shiver, as though it were the only way for his body to interpret whatever power was at work in his mind. His eyes snap open, and instead of the dirt and shrubs before him, he catches glimpses of being underneath that tarpauline, where giant metal claws stick out from being tucked by his head. The vision flickers, then disappears.

'Concentrate!'

*I know.*

He blinks again, and the vision returns. The red tint recedes when a golden glow flashes, and the large claws tremble with motion. He grimaces, feeling as though the weight of the entire Lion were on his bones, and he fights to maintain his steady breathing. Still, he forces his thoughts through the terrible strain: 'Keep it up. I think...I think I'm _seeing_ through its eyes.'

To his relief, the crushing heaviness is temporary, lessening with every tick. So much so, that he wonders if he might float off of the ground when a heady weightlessness overcomes him instead. His vision rises-- rather, the Lion rises.  Muffled shouts and panicked cries erupt as its paws shuffle underneath it and push the Lion up to its haunches. Tarp tears and steel snaps. Cables whip and slam into the dirt, blowing out clouds of dust over which he can see the glittering sky and moonswept landscape stretch out forever before him. 

He blinks again, returning to his own body, and to his normal vision. His chest quakes with the sound of a deafening roar as the Lion pivots towards their direction. There, finally, he can see blue fire ignite under its red wings in the distance.

"It’s working!" he says, astonished. He keeps his fist closed as they continue to channel their combined will, his entire forearm alight as a beacon in the dark for the great beast to find them.

Its brilliance, however, lures out much more than he could predict.

"Shiro!"

He starts when Krolia calls out to him, rudely breaking his concentration and snapping him back to his surroundings. He has few seconds to react when a trio of beaked, cowled visages seem to pinch off from the darkness itself and rush towards him. They dart across the ground like roaches, their cloaked bodies undulating like wraiths.  One of the creatures speaks, its shrill voice projecting as though passing through gravel in its throat.

"There! Destroy the rat. Retrieve the specimen!"

Spiny fingertips lance out from under their sorcerer's sleeves. Violet-tinged bolts of black lightning gather and blast from their palms. Shiro leaps forward, the air crackling as they pulverize the ground behind him.

Shiro winces when the plates of his arm clench, and he can't distinguish whether the squeeze in his heart is from rage, or fear. Perhaps both as Keith says, *Druids. _Quiznak._ *

'Easy, buddy. I'm with you this time,' Shiro assures him. He turns about to face their attackers, the latter so attuned to the night that the only definition he can make out are their pale hands and even paler masks.

But then, a wild shout pierces the air. As sharp an furious as their assailants' dark magic, Krolia leaps with her sword brandished. Her cuts are swift and brutal, and instantly fatal had the druids not shifted this way and that in avoidance of her moonlit edge.

"You unholy bastards!" Krolia spits like fire. Needlelike claws glimmer to strike, but she deflects them and thrusts her point forward, scowling when it barely misses its mark. "You'll all pay for your vile crimes!"

*We have to help her!* Keith prods, flaring. Shiro's agreement comes as a deep-seated indignation, and an explosion of scorn towards the very existence of these ruthless creatures and the violation they inflicted on him, on Keith, and on the innumerable victims whose names they may never know.  He grits his teeth.  If they want to observe the results their mad science has wrought, then he could only oblige them.

Thus, when one of the druids warps and moves to toss another bolt, it fuels his own burst of uncanny speed. He darts, leaps, and slices downward with the edge of his gleaming hand, white in its brilliance.

As expected, it dodges, shifting sideways like a viper just as his hand drops on its mask. He slaps away the clawed hand that comes to take his head from his shoulders, and advances on it an aggressive charge. He spins and lashes out at it, the tips of his fingers nearly grazing its beak with every swipe. He pauses when static crackles in his ear. He rolls, just barely dodging underneath an oncoming bolt from its ally. It strikes the outcrop, punching a fizzling hole into the rock.

"We can't fight them one-on-one," Krolia calls, savage claws clanging off of her blade.

"Then we'll have to work together!"

Shiro turns his attention to the druid dueling her. He charges towards them and their lethal dance, dodging up and sideways as more bolts shatter the ground under his heels. Krolia grunts when the druid catches and pins the flat of her sword to her chest with a hard shove, and the talons on its other hand descend for her throat.

He expects a spurt of blood when, in a single slash upwards, he removes the druid's hand from its gnarled wrist at her chest. Instead, a belch of foul mist pours out from the wound as though he uncorked a jar full of smoke. The agony, however, is by all appearances the same when the druid shrieks, drawing its maimed limb back into itself. It continues its clamor as it retreats, and the mask, and its will to fight, recede into mist.

Undeterred, the remaining two druids loose simultaneous lightning charges. The ensuing clap of air pops his ears when he ducks low to the ground to avoid the deadly missile. In the brief lull and in a violet blur, Krolia darts past him, zeroing in on the nearest enemy. Shiro launches from his crouch and follows suit.

The druid at first bats her off.  Shiro follows up with a slash of his own, forcing it once more into a duel to defend itself. _These are not warriors_ , Shiro thinks when he feints to one side, forcing its attention to him until Krolia can appear at its backside.

Another shriek shatters the air when Krolia pivots and brings her sword across, hard. Its edge splits the mask like an egg, crushed bits of its shell collapsing inward. Once more, and instead of blood, a waft of mist seeps out from the devastating wound. The druid's fingers twitch, its miserable life subliming rapidly into the night as its robes begin to hang loose and slack. Krolia doesn't wait for it to finish its death throes before she rips back her sword, and it crumples to the ground.

The remaining druid backs away. It seems to wither like its bretheren under the hard gazes of both Shiro and Krolia. After calculating its odds, the creature hisses at them in its frustration, wraps itself in its cloak, and vanishes from the field.

A gentle gust of wind rolls through as the silence returns, and their nerves settle.

Keith twitches at Shiro's side. *Did we...?*

A smile tugs at Shiro's lip, and he looks down at his glowing palm. 'They're gone.'

*We beat them. We _really_ beat them.*

"We're a good team," Shiro says out loud, sharing a fond glance with Krolia.

The revel in their victory is short-lived, however.  Additional helicopters had scrambled during their melee. So, too, had all the available ground forces now racing for them in pursuit, the headlights of their humvees beaming as they close in on them like a pack of wolves.

"That was our chance," Krolia says, chest heaving as she catches her breath. "And if the druids were here, then _she_ can't be far away, either. I'm sorry, but we need to forget the Lion for now and retreat, too!"

Shiro shakes his head. "No.  Not yet. We can still do this. Please, will you watch our backs?"

She reels, extracting her hand. With another glance over to the oncoming convoy, a pensive look crosses her face. But then, she nods.

"We might not have another chance," he says, perhaps more to himself as he turns back toward the Lion. He plants himself again and, holding Keith out, he strums the strings between them once more.

*They're coming for us,* Keith says, wavering.

'We beat those druids, like you said. We're ready for this. We have to be if we're going to stop running. The Lion is with us.  I think it's time we turn around and fight, don't you?'

After a beat, Keith answers, *That should be my line.*

Shiro huffs. When he turns to to check on Krolia, however, his stomach drops. 

"Krolia?" he asks.

*Is she okay?*

"I'm not sure. I can't see her."

*Can't see her?*

She is nowhere to be found.  He has little time to search further when the speeding cars come screeching to a halt. The reinforcements form a rapid perimeter, encircling them and the Black Lion, forming a wide ring filled with harsh, blinding headlights. As the last car rumbles into place, the noise of a helicopter demands his attention skyward. Its searchlight points squarely on them as the sleek, violet-accented belly hovers in overhead.

"Champion!"

Shiro tenses, the pronounced menace in that voice lancing him as ruthlessly as an assassin's blade. A figure, tall and hulking, leans out from the rear cabin. If his booming voice weren't a large enough clue as to his identity, then the giant, detachable, clawed monstrosity of an arm would have dwarfed it.

*Is that...?*

'Sendak.'

*Again?*

The lights are so blinding, and the troops surrounding them begin to whoop and hurl taunts.  Shiro's heart begins to hammer, and he breaks into a cold sweat.  

*Easy. This time, I'm with you,* Keith says. Shiro gasps as he remembers to breathe, the echo of own words a soothing balm over his rising panic. He feels Keith flare at his side, his entire hand and forearm alight as Sendak drops down from the helicopter.  He lands with a quaking thud, shaking off the height of the fall like nothing, instead breaking into a fanged, cruel grin.

"Welcome back to the arena, _Champion._ "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I, too, hate that I chose to end on yet another fn cliffhanger. But I had to stop the madness somewhere if I was going to update anytime soon lol. Thanks for bearing with me, hope to have the next chapter out before I have to be on a plane in ~2ish weeks


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big, huge, HEAVY update, just in time for Shiro's birthday!

Shouts and jeers swell and roll over him. The surrounding headlights cast black and white lines across the ground, pieces crisscrossing like a shattered plane of ice beneath his feet. The helicopter above pulls away, but its searchlight continues to sweep the makeshift arena.

“Don’t call me that,” Shiro says.

The embedded monocle of his left eye gleams blood red. “And why not? Would you prefer I give that title to His Emperor's property at your side instead?"

"He is not _property_ , the Emperor's or otherwise," Shiro spits, dropping into a more defensive posture.

"Have I touched a nerve? You look like a feral beast guarding its cache. I've heard you Terrans can be so sentimental about things."

*He’s smirking, isn’t he?* Keith asks.

He guesses correctly. As much to himself as to Keith, Shiro thinks, 'Don't let him get to you. He wants us to be careless.' He schools his expression, saying firmly, “If you're only here to waste our time, Sendak, then step aside. Our issue is with Zarkon, not you.”

The smirk on Sendak's fanged lip lengthens. “Then your issue is with the Empire, and therefore also with me. While I am eager for a rematch, you should know that I am not here to kill you, Champion. Nor to even cage you."

"If that's true, why don't you withdraw your soldiers and leave us alone?"

"Because I have persuaded his Emperor to extend to you a unique opportunity. One that spares your life and your dignity, absolving you for the capital crime of stealing his prized possessions, provided their safe return. You would be wise to consider it.”

Shiro huffs.  “Not interested.”

Sendak's self-satisfied smile wipes away. “Do not be so quick to dismiss this as though it were an insult. To have you shot like a dog right now would be a waste of your potential, don’t you think? I can teach you to harness that bloodthirst you have.”

At that, Shiro straightens from his stance. He bites back the urge to laugh. "You want to recruit me?"

"Even your limited faculties should be able to comprehend the magnitude of what I offer you, as the only Terran in our long history to be given such an honor."

“Then I'll be the first to decline as well. What makes you think I would ever agree to join the Empire?”

Sendak sighs, as if it were obvious. "Put aside your small-mindedness - if you can - and think about it. Could your people ever give you what I can? Meaning? Respect? Purpose? I know it’s what warriors like us crave. Without these things, we’re both just glorified lab rats, you and I. We are more alike than you care to admit.”

Shiro snaps to him, his brow murderous. “We are _nothing_ alike!”

“Please. You cannot deny the truth. It's time you rose out of the muck of mediocrity." As he speaks, his demon arm rotates like a drill. Highlighted in the myriad oppressive beams, Shiro notices all the changes in the design from their last encounter. The fingers of it are solid, black talons now, curving around a socket bored in the center of the palm. A cannon barrel, Shiro realizes with no small amount of dread. It still hangs at Sendak’s side from its shoulder dock through an orb of dark magnetism.

Sendak says, “As a weapon only knows its true worth under a good master, I can show you how freeing it is to be in the service of your betters instead of your inferiors. And in service of the Emperor, we would be next to gods. Join me, Champion. Become my lieutenant, and the entire world will become your very own arena!”

Shiro reels. The notion revolts him so much that the knot twisting in his stomach nearly staggers him.

*Don't let him get to you, Shiro,* Keith reminds him.

'I know.'

He _does_ know. His doctors had told him to manage his expectations. Garrison recruitment officers doubted his perseverance, too, even after he had aced his entrance exam. He endured all manner of disbelief and skepticism as he broke every record on his way to Officer. He gives a glancing thought to Admiral Sanda, with her open fear and distrust.

Yet somehow, he cannot muster the energy nor care to dwell on it for long, not when the faces of Sam and Matt Holt overwrite it so easily. When Adam overwrites it. When he remembers those countless classrooms all full of bright faces, and to see them again in Garrison suits refusing to arrest him. All faces of those who pushed him, supported him, accepted him.

Then, there was Keith. The hand at his side glows so steadfast and bright. He looks down at his palm, crackling with purpose, and his heart doesn't shrink at Sendak's words-- it blazes.

"Yes," Sendak says. "Ponder it. If you are clever enough, it should not take you long."

It does not take Shiro long at all to process the flash of pity for his razor-toothed adversary. 'Is he really that clueless?' he wonders.

*You have to ask?*

Shiro fights a smile. 'A fair point. He believes his Emperor's word, for one.'

Sendak prods, "Well? What is your answer? I do not have all quintant."

Shiro's brow furrows. He looks back up to that gleaming monocle and the heavy lines of Sendak's face says, "Am I really supposed to believe that Zarkon thought you could talk me into joining forces?"

Caught off guard, Sendak sputters. "He-he told me your secret! He said that if you do not think of yourself, then you would think of your dear friend at your side. With me, you would still fight together under one banner. You would still fight for him once he and the Black Lion are rightfully united with our Emperor.”

Shiro sighs. Now he truly pities him.

"I think Zarkon knows better, Sendak.  I think he sent you on a fool's errand."

"I-Impossible! This was _my_ idea!"

"Then that's even worse."

"Enough! I will not listen to anymore of your insane ramblings."

Sendak bares his jagged teeth, a split-second warning before he lifts his hulking arm and fires it from its socket like a missile. Shiro dives beneath the missile, and Sendak grunts with frustration when he recalls it. The massive object whips back around to skewer Shiro through the back. Fully aware of it, the latter spins, and he catches the point of a claw in his palm with a resounding clang. As he holds it, inches from his nose, he thinks, ‘So? What do you say?’

*Huh?*

‘What would you say if someone asked you how to beat this guy?’

*His arm allows him to keep us at range,* Keith answers immediately. *We should remove that advantage.*

Shiro smiles. ‘My thoughts exactly. Ready?'

*Ready!*

Shiro pivots and pulls the claw over to sail past over his back, then rushes for Sendak. He sprints, and Keith flares. His legs catapult him forward, his body to response to both his and Keith’s instinctive reflexes still registers as somewhat alien. Yet in this desperate circumstance, his unnatural quickness and strength seem all but entirely natural. He has no idea where he begins and Keith ends, but for the first time fighting together, it's not just a matter of filling in and reinforcing the gaps in their intentions. Combined now in purpose, their speed and strength don't merely level out-- they amplify.

Sendak grins. He cries out, throwing his whole weight behind his flying claws with intent on knocking Shiro clear off of his feet. But with Keith at such intensity, Shiro slaps it aside as if it were little more than a noisome fly, not even losing his balance as he charges. Sendak’s grin turns to pure shock, and he rapidly summons his arm back to defend. Closed in a tight fist, Keith clangs against its shell, the clamor resounding like a clap of thunder. Shiro throws out his other fist, and it connects with the side of Sendak’s jaw with a sickening crunch.

A howl of pain answers him. Sendak surges and throws him off like a rag doll. With Keith's light consuming the entirety of his arm, they follow up with a flurry of heavy swipes and blows. That all-encompassing warmth bleeds into Shiro’s body as they duel. At first, he believes it’s simply the intensity of the battle as it fills his core and electrifies his spine. Strangely, he feels his shoulder blades prickle, two points on his back that itch with wild energy.

He retreats only when the barrel of Sendak’s arm alights with a deadly charge. A laser fires, intense enough to vaporize the meat off of his bones. Keith deploys his shield instantly to scatter the light, but Shiro's heel carves a trench through the dirt when the force of it pushes them back several meters. The heat of it singes the end of his forelock through its crystalline barrier.

Sendak chuckles, wiping his bloody lip with the back of his hand. Then, he bellows in laughter. “I take it all back. Really, what are you without what the Empire gave you anyway? Without someone stronger to hide your weaknesses behind?”

*He’s one to talk,* Keith says, flaring. *Come on, we can take him down right now.*

'Wait,' Shiro thinks, a droplet of sweat rolling down his brow.

*What is it?*

'He's been used. Remember what I told you about blind spots? We have to at least try and get him to see his.'

*Figures you'd say that. But what if he doesn't?*

'Then stay frosty.'

To Sendak, Shiro says, “We all have weaknesses. Blind spots. Even you. That’s the problem with the Empire. Zarkon made you think you're invincible, and that you can mask your weaknesses with subjugation and isolation. But it only makes you that much more fragile."

Sendak scoffs. He gestures for him to look around at the gathered forces. “That's rich. Did the druids destroy so much of your faculties? Tell me, what weakness is so obvious to you? Our strength is undeniable!”

His troops erupt with cheers. They clamor and hurl taunts, some even flashing the headlights of their vehicles.

Shiro huffs, and waits for a break in the din before shouting, loud enough for all those gathered to hear: "I wonder, how many are eager to be here, not to watch me die, but to see if I won't remove their commander as competition for the Emperor’s favor?”

A clue that he had hit the mark comes when the hollers and jeers suddenly begin to quiet. "What?" Sendak barks.

"How many of you are here out of fear of punishment? Death? Or for selfish glory like their commander's? How many of you truly trust the one next to you to have your back?"

Sendak's jaw twitches. When the air stills, Shiro directs his next remark to Sendak: "How many here do you think have _your_ back, when they aren’t looking to stab you in it?"

He doesn't miss when those gathered begin to share looks. Sendak sees them, too, and his confidence visibly recedes as his overgrown lip quivers with rage. Nonetheless, he shouts to his troops, “They are all disciplined and loyal. You clearly would know nothing about that!”

"Or perhaps more likely they simply pretend, much like your Emperor. Such as pretending to let you make this joke of an offer to me, knowing full well you would fail. Then, you would either die, desert in shame, or have to report your failure and face his punishment. Either way, he rids himself of, what was it? A glorified lab rat who believes he's a god!"

"Silence!" Sendak shouts, teeth bared. "He would never do that! I have served him faithfully, loyally, all my life! He treated me like a son! I allowed myself to be disfigured, tortured, all so that he could one day carry the prize that you now taint with your inferior quintessence!  Ever second it stays with you is an _insult!_ I will not listen to a dog like you preach as if you know what sacrifice means!"

Shiro lands the final blow. “You don't sound so sure. What’s undeniable is how fragile your strength is without mutual trust, respect, and love. With Zarkon, it's clear you will get none in return. We wouldn’t be gods under Zarkon, we’d be husks frightened of our own shadows.”

"I...I..." Sendak trembles. His lip quivers into a snarl, ears twitching as though on the verge of panic. Shiro raises his fist.

But then, he extends it with an open palm. “You came to us with an offer. But I think it's us who can show you another way.”

*Shiro, are you serious?* Keith interrupts.

'Yes. Absolutely. I was serious about you, wasn't I?'

Sendak reels. He bares his teeth, his snarl twisting into madness. “Now we truly are wasting time. You are truly a worthless, stupid rat! You even sound like some _disgusting_ Altean.” His claws whirl once more. “Surrender, now. This is your final chance!”

“We can work together, Sendak, but not under someone like Zarkon. You, the Galra, your people aren't weapons in need of masters. You're people in need of friends.”

Sendak bellows, “Enough! You make me sick!”

*Well, at least you tried,* Keith remarks.

'It's too bad.'

The giant claw swings, but its aim less precise than before. Shiro sidesteps it with ease as it bulk craters into the ground beside him. It rises up, swinging over Shiro's head as he ducks forward. He keeps it up, moving just out of reach of it each time its weight blows by.

'Then again, now look who's a bit careless.'

*Are we toying with him?*

'Tiring him.'

Sendak grunts with every missed swing, frustration mounting along with his breathlessness.

*Then what? He's not going to stop.*

The edge of a claw races past his eyes. 'What else have we got that can disarm him? If I'm allowed to use that word in present company.'

*Funny. I'm not sure, though.*

Suddenly, the arm returns to Sendak. The laser at its center whorls with charge.

'Keith! Shield!'

*Yes, sir!*

Sendak's beam slams into them and curls around the glassy barrier in a spray of particles. Wincing, Shiro tenses when the claw itself then collides with the shield like a freight train, and it knocks him hard onto his backside.

'I'm okay,' Shiro thinks preemptively when Keith tenses, but his lungs protest, and his ribs ache. He struggles to rise to his feet when bruises bloom on his back, and instead rolls to one side when once more the claws crash down over his head. Rolling back onto his feet, he ignores his protesting body as he dashes for Sendak. He ducks his flying arm, then lashes out with his white-hot fist.  Sendak's red eye smolders with his rage, but he anticipates Shiro better in close quarters now, catching and throwing off punches. But then, an opening appears after Sendak's knuckles miss his face, and Shiro spins to deliver a hard back kick dead center of his belly.

Shiro grins with recognition of that particular move when Sendak staggers back, gasping. He leaps to deliver another hard kick. Sendak, however, stun him when he stops his shin cold, wraps his humanoid arm around his ankle and spins, throwing him off like a sack of meal.

Chalky dirt coats his tongue and lips when he lands. He sputters and spits it out. Behind him, he can hear Sendak's approaching feet.

"The only thing you deserve is a swift disposal as the failure you are. Stop your pathetic struggling, and just _die_ already!” Sendak spits.

*Come on, Shiro. We have to end this somehow,* Keith says.

'I'm open to suggestions,' Shiro says, rolling onto his back. Above him, the grim scowl of his adversary looms.

*Ever since we've been fighting, I feel like I've...I've got all this energy, but without any place for it to go.*

'I felt it. It bled into me. You think there's something we're missing?'

Sendak raises his clawed arm. Its dark energy gathers, aimed squarely at Shiro's chest.

Keith crosses over, shielding him from having a smoking hole bored through him. But with his arm pinned against him, Shiro can't breathe. The force of the laser is crushing, and the heat burns his nose and ears.

As they shelter together, a simultaneous thought occurs. Laser. A laser.

'Wait-'

*Do you think-?*

They share nothing more save for their unspoken intentions, and when the beam fades from Sendak's arm, Shiro raises his own. Keith surges, and in a burst of white, Shiro gasps at the sensation when the plates of his fingers, wrist, and arm slide over one another. They rearrange and reform into the long barrel of an hulking cannon of his own.

Sendak reels. "What-!"

Shiro braces with the ground at his back, and in another burst, a blue-tinged laser explodes from him. Sendak starts, too slow except to raise his clawed arm to block. But the beam deflects it upwards, and its light cuts through the metal of his shoulder joint like a knife through soft clay, and shooting beyond into the night sky.

Sendak howls. Pieces of his shoulder crumble apart. Without its dock, the clawed arm powers down, falling dead to the ground. Gasping, Sendak staggers, then collapses forward onto his remaining hand and knees.

All falls silent. Shiro sits up slowly, flecks of dirt spilling off of his suit and raining from his forelock. He slides his shaky legs underneath him, and Keith reforms back into his normal shape. He comes to stand over his wounded enemy, still trembling in shock. Shiro can empathize when every muscle in his body seems to twitch, every fiber brimming with adrenaline and the sudden efflux of energy from his body.

*We beat him,* Keith says.

'We _really_ beat him.'

Shiro perks up when a low rumble floats through his mind.

'You hear that?'

*The Lion?*

Suddenly, Sendak thrashes. "Curse you. Curse you! I cannot be beaten by you. I cannot let you live!"

His good arm whips out as he struggles to stand. He throws another haymaker, but it's careless and sloppy. At first, Shiro thinks he's still disoriented, but soon notices that his monocle is cracked, and a film of yellow fog coats his other eye.  Sendak bellows in frustration and fear.

*Now I really feel sorry for him,* Keith admits.

Abandoning his blind assault, Sendak then raises his hand straight up.  He shouts, "All hands! Open fire!"

Adrenaline floods Shiro once more when gunfire explodes from the ring of vehicles. Bullets splash dirt up and all around him, projectiles whizzing through the air like a swarm of hornets. Shiro leaps and runs to stay in motion, raising his arms to protect his bare head and neck from the relentless salvos.

"Shoot until he is nothing but a smear on the ground!" Sendak calls, thrashing limping as he backs out from the ring.

A bullet knicks Shiro's thigh, and he grunts as its slashes a trail of fire through his suit and over his skin. Sweat stings his eyes. Exhausted, his throat burns, and his muscles throb.

*We're fish in a barrel here!*

A lion’s rumble enters their thoughts again.  Shiro looks up to the starry sky.

_Help us!_ their minds shout in unison.

A lion's roar rolls over the scene like thunder, drowning out the gunfire. The guns cease when, up in the sea of stars, the Lion soars with its red wings spread.  Beneath its metal, thruster fire spreads out as elegant white feathers. In a single, incredible leap, the Lion blazes a path over to meet its pilots.  It falls like a meteor towards the earth, its forepaws crushing two vehicles like tin cans. They explode in a rush of fire and shrapnel, and Shiro shields himself as best he can when the ensuing shockwave crashes over him-- but coughs when he can hardly keep the sand from assaulting his delighted eyes and thrilled grin.

The Lion roars again, its massive jaws opening and blasting its laser in a wide arc. Its destructive beam carves through three more cars, each meeting similar and total annihilation. The ring of cars collapses when panic overwhelms the rest of the gathered forces.  The surviving cars scatter. Foolishly, the helicopter circling the scene begins to pepper the beast’s thick hull with gunfire. Another shot into the sky, and the rampaging Lion instantly converts it into flaming wreckage.

When the last of the enemy retreats, and there’s nothing left around but flickering fires, the Lion steps forward. It comes to stand over them, so tall on all four of its legs. Shiro looks from its claws up to its gleaming gold gaze, meeting his eyes as though alert and ready for its next request. Shiro smiles up at its serene face, its bluish glow of its cheeks a comfort in the night.

Keith still blazes at his side. *Wow.*

'Everything alright?'

*More than alright. This might seem ridiculous to say, but I feel...I feel _alive_ right now.*

Out loud, Shiro replies, "It's not ridiculous. You are alive, and that...that was amazing what you did.”

*What we did.*

Shiro smiles. But something beyond the Lion’s hindquarters makes his heart sink. ‘Let's dwell on it later, shall we?"

He tracks a long line of dust sweeping across the ground, pushed around by a strange and enormous disturbance in the air. Another gale blows past them, unnaturally strong as it sends flecks of dirt into his face. As he shields his eyes with his wrist, a chill races through him, but something other than the wind was making his hair stand on end.

They have to board the Lion fast. 

*Wait!* Keith calls, and Shiro stops short.

He does not wonder why for long. He gasps when all of the weightless, heady warmth rushes out of him in an instant, replaced with a crushing, bitter chill. A shudder rocks him so violently that he stumbles and falls to one knee. And for a terrifying moment, he knows his eyes are open, but he cannot see a thing in front of him.

*Shiro!* Keith calls, disappearing like a shout down a well.

'Keith,' Shiro replies, his head beginning to ache. He blinks, his sight recalibrating from the shock only to find that a violet cone of light has enveloped the Lion. The chill in Shiro's blood worsens with the recognition of that light, the same tractor beam that seized them near the comet's crater. In the same manner as then, the beam had fallen like a envenomed knife, injuring and corrupting their bond.

When he feels Keith’s distress, calling his name but still so far away, he braves a glance up to the night sky and to where the half moon rests. There, Zarkon’s floating fortress uncloaks as if congealing straight from the darkness. It drops from its altitude to loom like a thundercloud overhead, its momentum generating a microburst that thumps the ground. Shiro turns away, the blast threatening to bowl him over.

*Are you okay?* Keith asks, urgent, the strength of it returning.

'We can't let them take it,' Shiro thinks, perhaps more to himself as he staggers to his feet.

*But, Zarkon-*

'The Black Lion belongs with us, not Zarkon. We have to break his hold. Come on.'

*That interruption almost fried your brain,* Keith warns, and Shiro senses is hesitation in the fluctuation of power in his palm.

Shiro plants himself again and, holding Keith out, he attempts to reverse the cold infecting his limbs. He concentrates, his will urging Keith to help stoke the flame once more. 'It ambushed us. It's powerful, but we're ready for this. We have to be if we're going to bring the fight to Zarkon.’

Just as he finishes his thought, a thunderclap rocks the air. In a storm of black and violet light, the earth cracks open as a bolt of black lightning thunders down from the fortress above. Haggar materializes from the swirling chaos, accompanied by a druid wrapped in shadow.

“Thank you. Have the others remain on standby,” she says to the masked creature beside her. It answers with a single nod, then vanishes into mist.

*Her.* Shiro winces when fire erupts at his knuckles.

‘Take it easy. Stay focused.’

*I am!*

Haggar greets them with a crooked smile. “Champion. I am pleased to see you still live, despite Commander Sendak’s ill-advised efforts.”

“You knew it was ill-advised all along, didn’t you? How could you do that to your loyal lieutenant?”

“You might understand it as an act of love. To teach him a very valuable lesson. His perception of himself is out of alignment with reality, wouldn’t you agree? You made him understand what he really is: blind.”

“Figures you’d make others to do your dirty work.”

She huffs, on the edge of irritation. “And you ought to be grateful for the privilege. Don’t you understand yet? You, too, need your eyes opened. You do not see that you are fortunate for my intervention. You were sickly and weak when you arrived on my table, but instead of having you disposed of, I healed you. I made you strong, and you have repaid my generosity with incredible insight into our boon from the heavens. You have been more successful than I could have ever anticipated.”

“What is it you want?”

“Simply? You. I wish to study you. Your brain, specifically.”

*No!* Keith shouts in his head. *She won’t touch you!*

Suddenly, Keith blazes, easily counteracting the lingering chill within Shiro. Not with the same gentle warmth as before, however, but with raging fire, as if pure magma were coursing through his veins. Shiro grimaces at the overwhelming sting of it that penetrates the deepest parts of him. “Keith, stop,” Shiro croaks out. Then, his arm shifts like molten rock, growing in bulk. His fingers pull into fine points of claws. Shiro starts, horrified and awed at the mutation, but moreso at the swirl of anger and hatred that churns in the back of his skull.

Haggar’s thin lip twists into a smirk. “Discovery often demands sacrifice. Alfor had believed that mutual love and trust would reveal the true extent comet’s mysteries, and it seems your example supports his hypothesis. Look at how fiercely he defends you. I thank you, Champion. This data has been most intriguing, but it’s time I collected the rest of the return on my investment.”

“I don’t care,” Shiro spits, but grimaces, for the words are not wholly his own. He grapples with the rage crashing against his self-control, and tries to counter it with a steady focus, but the effort amounts to trying to withstand an oncoming tornado.

‘Keep a cool head, Keith.’

His arm tightens. *I am!*

He says this, but jerks like a hound on a chain. Shiro holds him in place, barely, but he can’t stop his palm from heating up with mounting energy.

*Let me kill her! Let me end this! This could all be over!*

Shiro sucks in a breath, painful given his bruising. Aside from the pain in his ribs, he still feels drained. “That last fight took a lot out of me, and we have to be careful. Just wait. The opportunity will come.”

The torrent recedes, but barely. His hand still shakes with burning hostility. *Come on, Shiro! What other opportunity do you think will come? This might be it!*

Haggar’s lip twitches. “It seems you are still lacking. His will is too still strong for you. Even in love, he fights you. You _allow_ him to fight you, and here is where I suspect Alfor’s hypothesis breaks down. Though you are an extraordinary specimen, that is why you could never be its rightful bearer. He needs a worthy master who can earn his loyalty through strength, not love.”

This time, his rage is all his own. “Even if he were the last living thing on this planet, Zarkon will never be worthy!”

This time, he lets go. Keith shoots out, laserfire gathering in his palm. But before the beam can fire, Haggar’s hand snaps out as well. More than just a mere bolt, a veritable storm of black lightning thunders out from her hand. Its bolts collide with Keith, stabbing and carving through the thick plates of his arm like knives, and the laser beam fizzles as Shiro cries out with the searing pain.

*Shi-Shiro! I’m-! I can’t move!*

Shiro collapses to one knee, Keith held up under the leash of black magic. Haggar chuckles, her magic cascading through his every nerve ending throughout his body. His vision darkens with every second, every blink of his eyes, and he cries out again when a pressure begins to build inside his skull.

Through the chaos, and like a voice shouting to him from across a canyon, Keith says, *I know this sensation. I can’t stop it. She’s breaking apart my connection to you. She’s trying to sever us!*

‘Fight it, Keith!’

*I-I can’t!*

The Lion roars. Shiro forces his head up with great strain. He can only see the glimmer of gold from where the machine is held in place.

‘The Lion is fighting, too,’ Shiro thinks.

But then, something shifts. Rather, something _tears._ A bolt, a seam, a bundle of wires between flesh and metal giving way. Shiro shouts as the mind-numbing pain stabs into his shoulder. He shouts and shouts as pain lances through his spine, traveling up to slam into the back of his head like a searing hot poker.

Keith seizes with it, too. Thoughts drift into Shiro’s mind. *She’s going to kill you. She’s going to kill you unless...unless…*

The fire in his palm cools, its bright glow fading out. So, too, does the molten red under Keith’s plating. Then, like plucking wires, their shared thoughts and memories disappear with every following tick.  The awful pain lessens along with them.

‘What are you doing?’ Shiro calls, but the truth hits him a tick later. He tries to pull his arm back, but already his arm feels heavy and listless. He blinks, his vision warping and flickering from red to complete darkness. ‘Keith, no! Don’t do this! Don’t go!’

He hears the Lion. He hears it growling. That all-encompassing warmth floods Shiro’s body. At first, he believes it’s simply the desperation filling his core with panic and electrifying his spine. But strangely, he feels his shoulder blades prickle. Two points on his back that itch with wild energy.

‘Keith?’ Shiro wonders. But instead of answering, Keith surges at his side, its usual violet tinge completely replaced with blue and white light.  The energy floods up through his shoulder, where a heady tingle along his scalp calms his racing pulse.  Suddenly, and like the crack of a whip, a burst of feedback causes the lightning to shatter abruptly.  The leash severs and Haggar hisses in pain, the blowback scorching her long fingers.

“ _Incredible_ ,” Haggar says nonetheless through gritted teeth. “You continue to surprise me, Champion. Most fascinating, but even your wings cannot save you.”

‘Wings?’

The itch at his back vanishes, and before he can ponder her remark further, the noise of an engine and screeching tires fill the air. A battle cry accompanies the sound, and he looks up to see a Garrison car speeding toward them. Krolia, at top speed, pits herself on a collision course with the robed witch.

*Mom!* Keith hangs limp at Shiro’s side, sluggish and heavy as before.

Her sword, extended and gleaming in firelight, sticks out from the driver’s side. It slashes, cutting a clean arc through the air. Yet despite her alarming quickness, it slices through nothing but in a flash of dark energy as Haggar escapes its lethal edge.

“ _Quiznak!_ ” she shouts.  

The witch reappears, and with gathered darkness, shoots a bolt out from her palms. It utterly destroys the back tire and axle, sending the car flipping. Krolia, however, abandons the driver’s seat with a ferocious leap, bringing her sword down overhead to cleave Haggar in two. The latter’s lip spreads into a cruel grin.  The sword misses its mark, for Haggar teleports again. She vanishes with every slash, as though toying with the interloper, or perhaps tiring her.

“And just who do we have here?” Haggar says between ports.

“Are you alright?” Krolia calls out.

Uncertain, Shiro rises to his feet. His head spins, and his legs rock with exhaustion. He looks over to the Lion, still brought to heel under the fortress’s magic. But before he can answer her, he tenses when, after a hard slash, she is ambushed from behind. Haggar’s withered hand slaps against her back, and Krolia cries out as though a sledgehammer had struck her there. Arcs of electricity course through her, and she drops her blade with a dreadful clatter.

“ _Mom!_ ” shouts from Shiro’s throat.

Haggar grins. She approaches Krolia and with a touch too delicate for the circumstances, reaches around to draws a nail under her chin. Then, she curls her fingers, the points of her claws digging into the skin with a lethal threat. “Is that who this is?” she says coyly. “Then our bargaining position is that much greater. It’s time you gave up, Champion, and cease your pointless struggle. Allow me to sweeten the pot for you.”

She raises her other hand. A bolt crashes, and beside her, two druids appear, with what appear to be hostages in tow. Both hang sagging and unconscious between their captors’ arms.

Shiro gasps. He recognizes the graying hair of one hostage, and next to him the bright mop of the other. Even in their disheveled and bruised states, he would recognize them anywhere. No, he thinks.

*Shiro?*

‘The Holts!’

*What...what do we do?*

‘I-..’ Shiro starts, but at a total loss. Pinpricks of tears invade his eyes.

Then, another voice speaks, low and malevolent: “Do you see now, Champion?”

If he felt sick before, the rest of his stomach drops out of him the moment that sinister voice enters his ears. Its as if it reaches in and tears out a void within him, leaving behind nothing but a cold, frozen wasteland. A trigger of his instincts send him whipping around, but a thick, clawed hand wraps around his neck and hoists him off of the ground. He kicks out his feet, gasping as he looks into the craggy, stony face of Zarkon himself.

His left hand grasps Zarkon by the wrist for whatever leverage he can get while Keith heats up, his earlier heaviness abating for a single strike. He throws the punch, but he can’t hide his shock when Zarkon catches it, his blazing fist buried harmlessly in the Emperor’s palm.

“We have the upper hand. We will _always_ have the upper hand,” Zarkon tells him as he chokes and writhes. “Now, I think I’ve allowed you play with my things long enough, don’t you?”

He twists. Shiro cries out, and Keith’s joins him in mind when his arm bends to an unnatural angle in his grasp, the loosened metal creaking under the force.

“Stop!” he grits out.

“Or what? Your will may be strong, Terran, but it is still not strong enough.”

*Shiro,* he hears through the agony. *Shiro, ugh, I-...I have to let go!*

‘Keith! No! Keith, wait!’

He gulps, his vision swimming from the lack of oxygen, but also as Keith recedes rapidly, like stars blinking out in the night sky. He spares a glance back over to the Holts, still slumped forward. There had to be a way. Something, anything they could do!

*It’s not worth it. They have the Holts. My mom. I can’t let them kill you. I can’t let them. Shiro, I-*

The last wires and rivets start to give way.

Shiro wails. With a revolting crunch, Zarkon rips Keith loose from his socket. A flash of sparks cascade from his shoulder, and dark fluid spurts and drips down and absorbs into the dirt. Flashes of static arc over the wound when Zarkon’s hand opens, and Shiro’s dead weight drops to the ground. The only ounce of life he has comes as he wheezes and heaves in shock. He blinks, yet no light comes through. He keeps blinking his tired eyes, everything so dark and utterly silent.

Except when, distantly, he hears: “We return to Dibazaal at once. We have what we need. You will commence the merge as soon as we return.”

“What about him?”

“I thought I might snap his neck once we arrived. But I have to admit, I still admire him as a specimen. You do too, I think. Leave him to his people for now. You will have your chance to tinker with him after we crush them all.”

“And the others?”

“Leave them all like the fodder that they are. They are of no more use.”

“As is your will.”

Shiro shivers when a rough breeze flows across his cheek. His throat runs dry, and exhaustion has him like an anchor tied around his ankle. _Keith,_ he calls out in his mind. He keeps calling and calling his name until it becomes little more than just a prayer he whispers. Eventually, the squeal of tires, and the urgent shouts of orders drown him out. The last edges of his awareness register someone keeping his head steady as he is rolled over onto his back, and lifted away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm crying too, lads


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just as a warning, this chapter delves further into angst and trauma, and I did my best to be as sensitive as possible to this end...please let me know if my depictions are objectionable in any way.
> 
> Once again, thanks for being patient with me! I was out of the country last week, so I hope y'all don't mind the somewhat shorter update here...

He drifts. He doesn’t know for how long. Rocking back and forth, around and down like a falling leaf. He sways and spirals until finally, he settles. His eyelashes flutter, cheek numbed against where it feels pressed against a sheet of ice, and his first shuddering inhale frosts the back of his throat. He doesn’t cough nor wheeze. Instead the icy air seems to flow right through him. Several breaths later, and only when just enough strength returns to his body does he gather his hands beneath himself and push up.

Hands. His hands. He scrambles to his feet, his breath catching when he snaps to his right side, and he looks over the familiar plating of his fingertips. The sight of it calms his racing pulse, if only just. The last thing he remembers…

His eyes screw shut. _Did the Lion save him?_

He’s been here before, after all. When he next opens his eyes, he takes in the vast sea of stars against void before him. Over and under, those pinpoints of light and ghostly nebulae all cluster converge on towards a horizon, like night sky above clear water.

Except there is one troubling difference now than from his last journey to this plane. Red. All over, the stars are drenched in it like blood, some pulsing and flickering like popping bubbles. It conjures an unsettling picture of being a crumb inside a beast's belly, rather than a speck of stardust bearing witness to the infinite universe.

“Keith?” Shiro says, whispering.

The sea of bubbles convulses, and the reply is immediate: “Sh-Shiro?”

Keith’s voice comes at him from all directions, warped and distorted. “Keith!” Shiro whips around, his own voice echoing and flying away into the vast emptiness.

“You're alive. I thought...I thought…” Keith says.

"Yeah. At least, I think so."

“I thought I had killed you.”

Shiro closes his fist. “No. I think you saved me. Again.”

"How is it that I can still hear your voice? That we can still talk to one another?"

Shiro thinks about this, coming to the only conclusion that seems to fit with what he's learned, and in defiance of all he previously believed about nature. “The Lion. Our quintessence must still be connected through it. We're still bonded! Even though-”

Shiro winces again, grasping at his right arm. His shoulder seizes, tight with the lingering memory of being sundered in Zarkon's iron grip. He's not sure how a figment of himself could have a panic attack in this place, but he nonetheless focuses on his breath. In, then out. In, then out.

“Shiro, I don’t... He is so powerful.”

“I know. I _know_ , Keith, but I’m coming. I’m scared, too, but I'm coming for you. I’m not going to stop, not until I get you back!”

“I don’t...No. Not this time. You have to stay away.”

Shiro’s heart twists. “But I promised you. You trusted me not to let you become a weapon. I won’t let that happen, Keith. I won't! Just...just hang on for me, okay? I know you can. I’m coming, okay?”

_Something_ roars. The Lion, he thinks, but far more shrill and tortured. Goosepimples break out across his skin, and he whips about trying to locate the source. It doesn’t sound like anything natural. It sounds like a monster.

"It's in pain," Shiro says. As if to affirm, the tortured roar thunders again, and he feels a terror not wholly his own.

Keith says, “I...I can try to resist him, but I don’t know for how long. His quintessence, his will...it’s so strong!”

His arm seizes. “Keith!” Shiro grits out.

Another voice speaks, booming and dark: “What have I told you, Terran? He no longer belongs to you."

_Zarkon._ Shiro staggers forward, dropping to his knees. He cries out when his arm begins to crumble between his fingers, its black shell falling away into a mess of cables and circuits that, in turn, also start to disintegrate into cosmic dust-- or perhaps into more digestible particles.

Either way, and when the last of it turns to ash at his shoulder, the connection cuts. Rudely, something seizes and yanks him, and he tumbles back from the myriad red dots, sucked back into void.

* * *

 

He gasps, bolting upright. A stab of pain races through his right shoulder, harsh enough to wring out a coat of sweat from his pores. He gulps down air, and a vague odor of disinfectant fills his nostrils. An incessant beeping triggers at the same time.

He opens his eyes, but finds the sheet of red over his vision persists, thick and dense. He blinks. Then again. Again, and again, but it's as if someone threw red blanket over his head. He registers little more than shadowed blobs and outlines, and nothing else comes into focus. He can't see. He can't see anything but red. "Wha-"

He digs the heel of his left palm into his eye, and blinks again. Sharp jolts of pain pierce up his right shoulder, and there's a lightness on his right side, and that a void exists where there shouldn't be. He lowers his left hand, but no such thing happens on his right. There _is_ no right, save for more jolts of pain occurring with every flex of the missing limb he wants to make. He sucks in a breath as his shoulder joint rotates back down.

Yet worse than the blindness or the aches in his shoulder, is the conspicuous silence. He dimly registers the beeping of electronics and far off voices, but his mind is far, far too silent.

‘Keith,’ he thinks. He tries to conjure up a snarky quip, but it only sounds hollow in his imagination. "Keith," he whispers. Thrashing, his pulse kicks into a gallop, and his breath quickens as the truth sinks in. Gone. He was _gone._ Zarkon tore them apart with only his bare hands.

“Keith!” he shouts.

Sweat gathers along his brow. Under his palm, he finds yielding material cool to the touch. Sheets. His backside presses into flexible but firm material, and adding it up with the odor of disinfectant, he assumes a hospital bed. Air-conditioning blows across the bare skin of his arm and collarbones, and its chill easily cuts through thin material of what must be a cheaply made gown. Even his suit had been taken away from him.

His breath comes out thready as he continues to take stock of his surroundings, listening in on doors opening and closing, and murmurs of conversations in the distance. It's still so awfully, pervasively, maddeningly quiet.

"Keith!"

Shiro calls out for him-- raving really, from the way his voice breaks.

A floodgate of footsteps bursts then, trampling a path toward his bedside. "He's awake!" someone says as he jerks and rolls, wanting to get to his feet. Tethers around to his head and chest tug him back, and he hisses at another explosion of pain through his shoulder.

Suddenly, cold hands are all over him. They're all over him, pushing him back down, pinning is remaining limbs. “Sir, we need you to stay calm, and lie back,” someone tells him.

His skin recoils from every direction, his every nerve bristles with terror until it bursts from his lungs. "Get off! Get off me!"

"Sir, it's okay. We're here to help you. Just take it easy."

But those hands find his wrist and ankles again, and so he jerks again, kicking and flailing. His pulse hammers inside his chest. "Don't touch me!"

He freezes, however, when he hears: “Hey, Shiro!”

He tilts to his left. He can see little more than an aura of red around a shadow. “Matt?”

“Yeah, it’s me. We’re here.”

His lungs find air again. "Sam, too?"

His answer comes when a "What the hell are you all doing?" carries over the commotion. The ire in Sam's voice is a comfort. "Would you just do as he says?" Sam continues. "Do you really have to hold the man down to take his stats?"

"Sirs, we're going to have to ask you to leave."

"Leave? Throw us out, then. We're not going anywhere, and wouldn't your superiors love to know you mistreated us high-profile P.O.W.s!"

"Sam!" Shiro calls.

"Sir, please don’t try to get out of bed just yet.”

It takes Shiro a second for him to realize he was being spoken to by the nurses. "But I can't stay here!" Shiro barks out, ripping his wrist away.

Closer, and with far more gentleness, Sam says, "Shiro, you're safe. You've been through an unimaginable shock, but you're safe. It’ll be alright."

Another jolt of pain at his side, the red in his eyes, and the emptiness in his head flies in the face of that promise. Moisture has started run over his cheeks and upper lip. Safe, maybe. But what about _miserable?_

"Hurts," Shiro blurts out, finally just letting the hands - the nurses - push him to lie back.

Sam sighs, solemn. "Can you give us a minute?"

"Sir, he-,"

"Please. Just a minute. And...don’t tell command he’s awake just yet.”

They seem to acquiesce and feet shuffle over linoleum and out into the hallway. Sam and Matt shuffle in next to him, and fingers touch his arm before they slip into his remaining hand. Warm, but bony and thin. "I thought what Matt and I went through was bad enough."

"Where am I?"

"Where else but the top-of-the-line accommodations of Garrison Medical," Matt tells him.

Shiro huffs. He asks, "Should you two even be up and about?"

"We're managing,” Matt says. “We were a bit underfed, but they cleared us to be up and about not long after a few square meals.”

Sam says, “The mental scars are still being tallied, though. Our mandated psychotherapy will no doubt uncover the worst of it. The nightmares are...we're managing, as Matt put it."

"I'm sorry," Shiro whispers, tilting his head back. He relaxes into the bed, though the tender ache and jolts from his shoulder still persist. "I'm sorry I didn't protect you and Matt. I didn't get you out."

"What are you talking about? You saved Matt. You saved my son. You have nothing to be sorry for.”

"I...what?" Shiro starts.

"I don't think he remembers, Dad," Matt says. "They scrubbed a lot of things from our memories, too."

"Scrubbed, or repressed? You remembered getting marched to your death in that horrible fighting ring. You said that Shiro had begged to take your place."

Matt huffs. "Did a little more than that. You threw me to the ground for it. I wasn't even sure if it was all an act."

Shiro swallows. "I can't be sure it was all an act, either, to be honest. But I'm glad it spared you. But how did you, ah-,” he winces, “-get them to let you in here? I’m surprised they decided not to quarantine me.”

With a squeeze of his hand, Sam says, “I insisted that you were family. _Someone_ has to keep an eye on you. Also helps to have been classmates with one of the administrators here."

"Do you know how long have I been out?"

"I'd say, oh, almost seven quintants."

"Seven!"

"It took them a couple quintants to clear me and Matt, and you were still comatose then. I'm told they weren't sure whether to call in a surgeon or a mechanic at first. It took half a cycle in surgery just to seal off your shoulder and ensure any infection wouldn't set in."

Shiro struggles keep his attention focused when his mind latches onto seven quintants. Seven. Zarkon now had Keith and the Black Lion for almost an entire movement already. Then, yet another concern pops into his head.

"Krolia?"

"Huh?

"What happened to Krolia?"

"Krol-...Oh, the Galran?"

"Is she okay?"

"I'm...I'm not sure, honestly."

"We have to check on her, make sure Sanda didn't-," he tries to roll out of bed, but Sam presses a hand to his chest to stop him.

"I'll check on her, Shiro. You ought to get some rest. Do you want me to ask the doctors for something to help with the pain?"

When Shiro lies back, he winces again. He considers the offer. But ultimately, he shakes his head.

"Don't be a martyr, now," Sam insists. "Don't even think about punishing yourself, you hear me?"

"It's not punishing myself. It's…” he trails off, struck dumb as he recalls the fear he heard in Keith’s voice, matched with the horrible roar of the Lion. “it's reminding me of what I still have to do."

“What do you have to do?” Matt asks.

“I have to get him back.”

“Who?”

“Keith.”

A brief pause. “Keith...Kogane?” Matt guesses.

“Who?” Sam asks.

“A cadet he was close with before the mission. I didn’t really know him, but I remember the officers saying how you rarely saw one without the other,” Matt says, with an explanation Shiro had no argument with. 

Sam puzzles in the way he huffs. “What does he have to do with any of this?”

Shiro tenses under Sam's touch.  “ _Everything_ , Sam. I don’t care anymore about Zarkon, or the Empire, or anything they’ve done to me. I’m going to get him back,” he says, nodding towards his empty side.

Sam says, “Huh.  Well, before we unpack all of that, I don't think you're in any state to do anything until you get some rest. For your own sanity."

Shiro huffs at that. He had little idea of what sanity looked like anymore. If madness implied some kind of abnormality, a deviation from the norm, then what was he if madness _was_ the norm?

"We'll talk more when you're feeling up to it," Sam finally says. “I want to hear all about your ordeal since our capture.”

Shiro nods, exhaustion still heavy on his eyes. Then, another voice speaks up nearby. "Dad?"

Shiro has a vague recognition of the voice, but he can't quite place it. But then, Sam says, "Katie?"

"Hey sis," Matt greets.

"Why aren't you both in bed?" she asks.

Sam tells her, "Because we're sick of it, if you’ll pardon the expression. And Shiro here just woke up."

"Officer Shirogane? The same one who went with you?"

"That's him."

Feet shuffle up to the bed. There’s a brief pause before she says, "Nice to meet you, Officer. Oh, _wow._ "

Those same feet swing around to his right, and a puff of awe whispers past his collarbone. Shiro smiles. "You can just call me Shiro, Katie."

"Pidge."

"What?"

"I prefer Pidge."

"He can't see you, sis," Matt says.

“Can’t see?”

"Probably a good thing seeing how shameless you’re being about looking at his arm as if he were one of your prototypes."

"I'm not being shameless! Well, not _that_ shameless.  Sorry, sir."

"It's fine, Matt," Shiro says.  

Pidge continues, saying, "It's just...I heard that he- you, had piloted a giant robot made out of the comet. And that you had some unique Galran tech that let you do so. I didn’t anticipate it would have been installed so...thoroughly, by all appearances.”

"I get it. And you heard right, Pidge, except that it was King Alfor's design."

"Really? So you’re saying it's actually _Altean?_ " she says with undisguised enthusiasm in her voice. “Then what…” she starts, her delight fading from her voice. “What happened to you?"

"Alright, that's enough. I told Shiro he ought to get some rest. We can all interrogate him later, when he has the wherewithal to put up with us," Sam says.

The feet shuffle away from his side.  “ _Fine_ , fine. I can’t wait to tell Hunk and Lance, anyway. And you guys should rest, too. Don’t think I won’t tattle to mom if you don’t!”

Matt grumbles his acknowledgement, while Sam bids her goodbye.  But then, the feet stop short. 

"Hey, Shiro?" Pidge says.

"Yeah?"

"Thanks."

Her footsteps shuffle and fade away. Somehow, the next jolt of pain in his side doesn't feel quite so bad.

“She seems like a good kid," Shiro says.

“Who, Katie?” Matt says, chuckling. “Don’t let her innocent curiosity fool you. She’s trouble.”

“Oh, like you aren’t?” Sam says, and Shiro doesn’t have to see it to be sure of the broad smile behind it. As they continue in their good-natured ribbing, Shiro’s smile falls.

* * *

 

Eventually, inevitably, he returns to the awful silence of his thoughts.

The Holts leave, and the nurses come back.  They adjust the monitors on his chest and scalp, and stick him for a blood draw. They check his nose, his ears, his red-shrouded eyes, prying them apart with calloused fingers. He permits it, even as his pulse spikes with every touch, but he does appreciate that they do have the courtesy to speak up and signal each touch.  After probing him like a mule, they, too, eventually leave him alone again.

Later, a physician drops in to inform him of the damage. She tells him, “I'm pleased to say that by all appearances, we have successfully sealed off your wound.  While the scarring can't be helped, we repaired the damaged bone and muscle tissue to the best of our ability.”

“I know you have. And I’m grateful,” Shiro says.

“Unfortunately, we can’t seem to determine a direct cause for the pain you’ve described. We cannot find any evidence of injury to your optical nerves, either. We cannot determine why you are having physical symptoms when the injury seems much more…”

“Psychological?”

A pause follows. “I’m sorry. But yes.”

Somehow, he’s not surprised by the assessment. He wants to tell her that his injuries feel deeper than that. Spiritual, even. He stays quiet, unsure if she might understand, and without the energy to argue the point.

“I can refer you to someone, once we release you,” she offers.

“I’ll consider it. Thank you,” he says, just to have her leave, too.

He used to be able to sleep anywhere, anytime. Now, it seems impossible, though his red-washed eyes throb, sunken and heavy. He finds he misses all the poking and prodding, if only as a distraction from thinking about his endless captivity. Especially so the instant he hears the heavy thud of jackboots against linoleum.  His adrenaline spikes by mere association with the individual who must be wearing them, and worsens when those sharp heel strikes come to a sharp halt at the doorway.

“Officer Shirogane.”

His lip twitches. “Admiral.” He tilts his head toward her, waiting for her to make the first move in the standoff.

Finally, she says, “I’m glad to see you awake, and in recovery. As much as you might find that difficult to believe.”

“Thank you. Though after our last conversation, you were ready to put me in this very spot yourself.”

For her part, she sighs, more solemn than exasperated. Her heels clack as she takes a step further inside his room. “Not like that. Not like what I saw. Your wound-- it might have been the most horrific thing I have ever seen happen to anyone, let alone one of our own. The surgeon did an excellent job, considering.”

"Are you truly relieved for me, or for the fact that Zarkon solved this problem for you?"

She scoffs.  "Why must you always assume the worst of me?  I sincerely care about your well-being, Officer."

“Because somehow, I doubt this is only just a wellness check.  Are you here to discharge me in person?” He snaps his chin up. “And Adam? What about him?”

“I cannot discuss Mr. Wright with you.”

_Mister_ Wright. Shiro's gown bunches under his fist.  That detail tells him enough.

“However, what I am here to tell you is that I am still willing to extend an olive branch. I...acknowledge and appreciate all you’ve done for the Garrison. Therefore, while I am not here to discharge you per se, I have drawn up and approved for you to take medical retirement. With full honors. All you would need to do is sign your name,” she says.

“Retirement?” He shuts his eyes, exasperated. “Retirement. Of course you’d recommend that.”

“Shirogane, listen to me. Despite you having been mixed up in all this, and the extraordinary luck of your survival, do you really, honestly think you are still fit for duty? What would your assessment of you be if you were in my shoes?”

“For one, I wouldn’t waste time having the exact conversation we seem to keep having. If you had any appreciation for what I know, you’d realize that I am fit to fight Zarkon. I am the most fit. You want me to see things from your perspective, but you never try to see things from mine.”

“A blind, crippled man is the most fit to fight the Empire,” she says dryly.

A huff of bitter laughter escapes him. “Wow. Well, at least you’ve decided to be more honest with me about your opinion.”

He can easily imagine the heavy frown etched on her features. “You have been in a coma, so allow me to update you. Ever since Zarkon and his forces withdrew, there has been no Galran activity on the border. None whatsoever. Despite your hostile and frankly treasonous actions, the Empire seems to be honoring its word. There will be no fight, Shiro, so long as you don’t try and make one.”

Stunned, Shiro's mouth falls open for half a second before he says, “You...you actually believe that?”

“Yes, I do.”

Shiro bites his lip, wanting to argue, then wanting to scream. He does neither, too utterly wrung out for this Sisyphean task. He says flatly, calmly: “Then forget the retirement, the honors, all of it. Forget everything. I appreciate the olive branch, but I opt to resign, effective immediately.”

“Officer Shirogane, don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’d say you have that covered, Sanda," unable to hold back the bitterness soaking his remark.

She blusters, and he can sense the indignance rolling off of her like toxic gas. “You--... _fine._ You're right.  It's time we stopped having this conversation.  Your resignation is hereby accepted. You may stay here until you are well enough to leave, but not a varga longer.”

“Great. If that’s all?”

She doesn’t trouble him with a response, but he chases the pivot of her heel and the fading click-clack of her footsteps with a heavy sigh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Finally! Another paladin shows up! And some name drops...:)


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thank you for your patience with my sluggish update schedule these days! I caught a bug that set me back a bit, and this next little bit has been a tough nut to crack, even though I know where I want things to go...The difference between simple and easy, right?

As Shiro grows more accustomed to it, the sharp pangs of his shoulder reduce to a persistent dull ache. Still, he struggles to sleep. Seven quintants of it seems like more than plenty for a long while, but that is not the reason he tosses and turns.

The Lion. He hears it. The tormented roar haunts him too deeply to be a mere hallucination. Worse, it gets louder whenever he does begin to doze. His breathing quickens, and sweat breaks out across his body. His blindness recedes into murky dreams, as if breaking the surface after a dive.

He dreams of being inside some facility. A hangar, one not dissimilar to the one where he first found the Lion. His perspective, however, sits high above toward the ceiling, and he looks downward across cables snaking across the floor and feeding into monitoring stations. The dream shifts to him inside the Lion's cockpit, but not in its chair-- rather, he observes the vacant seat from the console.

The dreams flicker between these perspectives until at last, a bestial cry snaps him back awake, and he plunges back into the sea of red.

At first, he tries to hold on, and focus on the hazy few images being fed to him. The effort feels like akin to dining on soup with a fork as the images slip away. He doesn’t fully understand-- not until he catches shadowy figures moving across the floor of the hangar. He manages to identify them as a pair of Galra, both dressed in laboratory frocks. They walk by, datapads held in each of their hands.

_These aren't dreams_ , he realizes. _They’re visions._

Since this epiphany, he doesn’t try to control nor fight the foggy images. For vargas, or perhaps only dobashes at a time, he rides the seemingly endless ebb and flow, suspended in this cycling state of waking slumber, hoping for further insight.

Eventually, the Galra pause, and their steps hesitate as they approach an enormous figure standing just on the edge of his view. The vision sharpens when the figure steps forward and into the light, with broad epaulets and flowing black cloak. Shiro sours with instant recognition.

The pair of Galra bow their heads to their Emperor. His baleful, craggy lip turns down as his lackeys inform him of something Shiro cannot hear. He cannot hear any sound, only watch as their lips move, followed by gestures from the Lion to the readouts on their datapads. Once they finish, Zarkon's chin lifts. His cruel, empty eyes meet the Lion's. Meet his. The instant knot of dread in his gut has his hair standing on end.

Those foul, yellow eyes narrow into slits, and the malevolence behind them strikes out like a coiled viper. Shiro’s blood freezes in his veins.

Another pained roar, so near that it quakes in his chest. He bolts awake. His blindness - at least in this body - still persists.

He slumps back into the pillow, relieved, frustrated, and exhausted. He lies still, until the monitors clinging to his scalp and chest begin to annoy him. They itch and scratch. He reaches, grabbing at the bundle of cables. He’s about to yank when a gentle _tap-tap_ of knuckles at the door interrupts him.

"Hello? You decent?"

Shiro releases the bundle, fighting down a groan of recognition. The door hinges creak. He’s not ready to be seen by him. Not like _this._

"What are you doing here, Adam?"

"Good morning to you, too.  Serving your breakfast."

Shiro sighs. "Don't."

"Don't what?”

Embarrassed, Shiro can do little more than turn his face away, and wish to disappear.

Adam says, “You and I both know how stubborn you are sometimes. Someone has to make sure you eat something.”

“How did you know I was here? Awake?”

"Dr. Holt reached out to me. He warned that you might not be able to appreciate these as much in your condition, but..." Adam starts, but hesitates. Leaves rustle, and the faint perfume of flowers wafts under Shiro's nose.

Their delicate scent has him rotating back around. "Hydrangea?"

"They were your favorite. And some more traditional daisies for good measure."

"I appreciate them, but you...you didn’t have to."

“Of course I did.” Leaves rustle when Adam sets the flowers down. "Is this okay?" he asks, and Shiro feels contact at his left shoulder.

Shiro nods, but still winces when a firm hand gently nudges him to lie back further, and the clatter of plastic signals the unfolding of the bed table and the deposit of the food tray. The lingering smell of flowers, and the vague hints of coffee, sandalwood, of _him_ , hits Shiro all at once with the comforting familiarity to it all. Yet as cloying as it is, Shiro finds himself drawing back from it. "I'm surprised they let you in here."

The hand on his shoulder lets go. "Gee, you almost sound happy about that."

"Surprised, really. You really stuck your neck out."

Chair legs scrape over the floor. He hears Adam heave a sigh. "With the way you look now...Maybe I wish I hadn't."

"That bad, huh?"

"I mean, a full head of white at your age? Tells enough of a story."

"White?" Shiro repeats, threading a hand up to touch at his forelock.

"It’s not a bad look, actually. Now go ahead and eat something before I start to henpeck," he says. The air shifts when he leans forward, snatching up something and pressing it - a utensil - into Shiro's hand.

Shiro cracks a smile, then sniffs the air. "Alright. What's on the menu?"

The chair creaks. "Appears to be some kind of enriched pudding - peanut butter flavor - with some apple sauce, and a side of broth."

"Delightful.”

Playfulness laden in his voice, Adam says, "Just think of your survival training and get it over with."

Shiro does, and so despite his utter lack of hunger, he gropes for the nearest cup and digs in. He manages a few mouthfuls of both pudding and sauce before a lurch in his stomach threatens to undo the effort. After swallowing a wash of broth through a straw, and summarily nudges the tray away.

"It's the best I can do. Especially since I’m about to ask you about the yalmor in the room.”

The statement hangs heavy as Adam settles further into his seat, and clears his throat. Another silent moment passes. “Dishonorable discharge. I’m a regular civilian now. The Admiral said it was merciful for what she so much as called treason.”

“Adam...” Shiro sighs. “I’m so sorry. Your father must be so disappointed.”

“Doesn’t change very much on that front. I’m going to miss my friendships at the Garrison the most, and I’m not sure what direction my life will take now, but...I’ll manage."

“What about the others?”

“Others? Oh, you mean my team? Permanent reprimand on their records.”

“So I basically ruined their chances of promotion anytime soon. Great.”

“I wouldn’t let it bother you too much. Most seemed in good spirits about it. Especially Griffin. I don’t think any of them mind having it on official record that they got in trouble for helping out the great Takashi Shirogane.”

Shiro drops his chin at that. He grimaces. All of a sudden, the ache in his shoulder comes back with a vengeance. "If it makes you feel any better, I'm officially off the force, too."

"When did this happen?"

"I guess it was last night-- I'm not sure about the passage of time lately. Sanda came by. I resigned."

Shiro hears Adam shift, probably crossing one leg over the other. He says, "I think I’m more shocked that wasn’t already the case.”

“Adam.” Shiro clutches at his bedsheets. “I’ll make it right. Somehow. I promised you.”

“Don’t stress yourself about that right now. You’re not in any state right now to make good on your promises.”

Shiro winces again. Tears sting at his eyes as he reaches over to cradle his wrapped up shoulder.

“Still in a lot of pain?” Adam says softly.

“Excruciating,” Shiro says, feeling the warmth spill over his cheeks. “I just wish he were still here with me. I could deal with it if I could just hear his voice. But he’s gone, and it’s so quiet now. And it was over so fast.”

“He? Shiro, what’s the matter?”

One yalmor had been cleared, but another, even larger one took its place. Shiro calls it by name, his voice cracking on the lone syllable: “Keith.”

In the silence that follows, he can sense Adam turning that over in his mind. “Keith...Wait, Keith Kogane? The cadet? The one who stuck to you like a barnacle?”

Shiro nods, gripping his wound more tightly. “The same.”

“What about him? I thought he went missing."

“He _found_ me, Adam. In the bowels of the Empire. He’s the reason I’m here talking to you right now.”

“I don’t understand."

“He didn't just go missing. He left the Garrison so he could rescue me. And in doing so, became the subject of the cruelest experiment I could ever imagine. Not in one hundred lifetimes. They...took his quintessence, his soul, Adam, and put him in my arm.”

“Quintessence? Isn’t that just pseudoscience?”

“No, it’s all real. There’s no other way to explain it. We didn’t just become attached, we bonded in a way that all of our lying textbooks say should be impossible. We fought together. We _flew_ together, both as ourselves, and as each other. And do you want to know the craziest thing of all?”

“Might as well lay it on.”

“It felt so right. The circumstances are all wrong, but it could have only been me, you know?  And it could only have been him.”

Shiro can almost imagine the tumbleweeds rolling by when the ensuing ticks go by in silence. Adam finally says, “That does sound a little crazy.”

Shiro sighs. “I know, but it’s the truth.”

Another quiet beat stretches. Adam hums, saying, “I guess I'll have to believe you.”

“Really?”

“The Galra did a number on you, but...you’re no fool. And you’re always honest. Besides, I...I figured he had a thing for you.”

“Wait, you did?”

“And you didn’t? I remember wondering if you even knew how easy it could be to fall in love with you.”

Love. Shiro grimaces, and his chest tightens. It’s not from that burgeoning, lofty updraft of inner fire, and the blazing union of his resolve with Keith’s that he misses so dearly. This feeling is far too tight, too cold, too unrelenting.

Heartache. It could only be heartache. If his breakup with Adam was a shadow, then this was an eclipse.

"I guess between you and Kerberos, I wasn’t really thinking about it then. But I should have known, too. I should have known it was different with him. It was always different with him.” He swallows hard when tears prickle at him.

He can almost imagine what must be Adam's the eyebrows shooting towards the ceiling, especially with the way Adam says, " _Shiro_."

Shiro huffs, mirthless as his chest constricts even further. “I wish I hadn’t been so stupid.”

"Not at all. It…” Adam sighs. “Maybe you did know.”

“Huh?”

“Maybe it’s why you bonded so fast. And why being separated left you like...like this. I think I understand the problem now.”

“Adam, I’m sorry.” A tear escapes, rolling down his cheek. He wipes it with the back of his hand.

“Sorry? Why sorry?”

“If this is a little insensitive of me…”

Adam scoffs. “No. I might still care about you, but I’ve mourned you. Twice over now. And if Keith did do what you say, and he traded his soul to bring you back from hell? How could I or anyone else ever hold a candle to that? His devotion is on an entirely different level.”

Shiro’s discomfort abates, and some relief flows out with a long sigh. "Thank you."

"Does he know?"

"Know what?"

"How much he matters to you?"

"He...why wouldn't he?"

Adam tuts.  "Remember how long it took you to give me straight answer when I asked whether we were exclusive?"

Shiro cocks his head. "But...we were?"

"True, but you just assumed I knew that. You were oblivious that it might have been a concern for me."

"In my defense, it wasn't actually a concern."

"For you, perhaps. But for me? You're an actions-speak-louder kind of person, which is what I adore about you, but no one can read your mind."

Shiro huffs. "He could."

Adam pauses. "Really?"

"Really."

"Then if there’s doubt, then maybe it's not your mind that needs reading."

Shiro sighs, leaning back deeper into his pillow.

Adam says, "Few people share your kind of confidence is all I’m saying. And if anyone deserves to hear what your heart has to say, then, it's that crazy cadet of yours."

"Alright, enough with the sage advice already." A flutter replaces the ache in Shiro's chest, soaring with a rush of warmth in his cheeks. It’s not entirely unpleasant this time, and reminds him of when he had first held hands with the man now sitting at his bedside.

But the emptiness at his right side sobers him, and as the warmth yields to longing. “I have to get him back first. He’s...he’s scared and on his own right now. And for too many quintants," he says. All at once, the monitors start to itch and bother him once again. Shiro's lip turns and, at the end of his tolerance, he reaches up and tugs off the offending net clinging to his scalp.

"Hey, wait-!” Adam starts, chair legs scraping harshly across the floor tile.

Shiro whips aside his sheets, the food tray casting off his lap. Tray and cups hit the floor with a loud clatter of plastic. Disconnected electronics whine as Shiro sits up and throws his pale legs over the side of the bed.  He shivers when his feet find the floor ice cold, and his knees tremble like a newborn fawn's. An equally unpleasant draft rises under his gown snakes up his unclothed backside, leaving behind a wake of gooseflesh. Nonetheless, he slides his feet along the cold tile, groping with outstretched fingers of his left hand until he can wind them around the sharp jut of Adam’s shoulder.

“I know I just gave you a pep talk, but that doesn't mean you shouldn't take it easy,” Adam says, steadying him with a hand at the bend of his elbow.

“I’m going to get him back, Adam. That’s another promise I intend to keep. I’ll take on every last soldier in the Empire if I have to.”

“You won't be any good to him if you push yourself too hard. You’re not cleared yet.”

Shiro pushes off of him, withdrawing his hand. He staggers, but his shaky legs hold. “Then I’ll just have to go against medical advice,” he bites out, wincing when he meets resistance.

Adam restrains him gently by his shoulders. Coffee, sandalwood, _him_. “Go back to bed.”

"I'll be fine."

"Stop being so stubborn all the time, will you?"

Hearing that makes Shiro bristle, the words like thorns catching on scar tissue. He says, "Some things really don't change, do they?"

That is what causes Adam to withdraw his hands, and as if Shiro had bitten him. In their wake, Shiro instantly regrets his words.

“Wait, Adam, I-”

"No. I guess they really don't.”

“Just what is going on in here?”

Sam's voice, harsh and terse, cuts through the tension. Adam steps back, saying, “Dr. Holt? Nice to see you.”

“Oh, Mr. Wright. I’m glad to see that you were able to make it by. I thought I'd come by to check on you, Shiro, but why are you out of bed?”

“I can’t stay here any longer,” Shiro answers, as if it ought to be reason enough.

A pause. “Have they released you?”

Shiro shakes his head. "I don't need to be released. I'm not some, some wounded animal. I can walk out of here on my own.”

"And just where will you go? Not back to barracks yet, surely?"

Shiro huffs. He lurches forward, groping the air as he staggers on. "Not a chance. Command wants me gone, sooner the better. I'm not an officer anymore, Sam. I quit. I'm done."

"You quit? But you-, just hang on. Would you stop for just a tick?"

"I can't. It’s already been eight quintants.”

He shuffles to a halt when a warm, bony hand meets his questing one. Sam squeezes, saying, "I respect that you aren't an idle man, but you don't have to shoulder everything by yourself, okay? If you really want to leave, then let me try and make some phone calls."

"Doctor, is that-," Adam starts, but then hushes.

"Unless you have another place to stay for the time being, I'll offer up my address for the discharge paperwork," Sam says, releasing his hand. "And you would be welcome in our home. For as few or as many quintants as you need to regain your bearings."

Shiro sways, turning the offer over in his mind. "Really?"

"Really. But only if you will tell me all that's happened. I want to help you."

Shiro tilts his chin. Then, it dips. "That’s generous, but...I think I’m bad luck. I don't think I could stomach the chance of ruining your life, too."

"You couldn't possibly do anymore damage than the Galra already have, so why don't you let me decide? At least help me understand what's getting you so worked up."

"I think staying with the Holts would be a great idea," Adam says.

Sam insists, "It'll be no trouble whatsoever. That is, if you think you can put up with Matt and Katie."

Shiro smiles. "Alright, alright. Thank you, Sam. I accept. How long do you think we'll have to wait?"

"Hope to be no more than a varga. Mr. Wright, would you?"

The gentle grip on his elbow returns as Sam's footsteps trail off. Shiro lets Adam lead him back to sit on the bed. 

"I'm sorry for earlier. I was unfair and unkind."  He frowns when he hears clinking plastic of the scattered cups and food tray.  "And for the mess."

"It's alright.  I'm used to it," Adam teases. "Might ask someone to bring a mop, though."

* * *

 

Sam gets his release approved that morning.

Matt, however, is the one who comes by his room to fetch him. He brings a packed duffel, and a change of clothes in tow. Though it takes several awkward dobashes, and a little help from Matt, Shiro gladly discards his gown for the simple tee and jeans. Being out of the gown is by far the greatest relief he's felt since he had come out of his coma.

"Dad told me you got booted, so I took the liberty of grabbing what they packed up from your old room," Matt says flatly as he deposits the duffel onto the bed. "Is this really all you have?"

"I did not 'get booted'," Shiro says as he prods until he finds the zipper of the duffel. He feels around inside, touching the fabric of all his old clothes. By feel, he also accounts for his toothbrush, comb, and electric razor.

"Whatever you say," Matt teases.

“What’s that supposed to-”

Shiro freezes when his fingers glance over something odd, and a bolt of recognition strikes him. Sleek and inflexible, the texture reminds him of seashells. There’s a lot of it packed towards the bottom.

"What's wrong?" Matt asks.

Shiro huffs, then smiles to himself. "Nothing. Guess that's all of it," he says, withdrawing his hand and zipping it closed with a few tugs.

"Cool. Well, I'm glad you're staying with us," Matt says. "If only so that Katie will stop bugging me. She can ask her million questions about you in person."

Shiro throws the strap over his shoulder. "Give her a break. I admire her curiosity. I'm sure I'll manage."

"You say that now, but I’d put five credits on you waking up in the middle of the night while she tries to scan your shoulder while you sleep. Hey, let me carry that?"

Shiro chuckles, but holds up his hand. "I've got it. Just lead the way."

* * *

 

All too soon, Matt throws the brake after they roll to a stop. "We're here."

Shiro tilts his chin back, basking in the fresh air ever since they left the hospital behind. It feels divine as it fills his lungs and a light breeze tussles his hair. The gentle warmth of sunlight soaks into him like a balm, and for the moment, it holds back the swirling despair of this thoughts.

“Shiro?” Matt prods.

His door pops open. Shiro says, “Coming.”

Gravel crunches underfoot as he steps from the car. With the duffel in his lap, he heaves strap over his shoulder, and with a hand on Matt's elbow he lets himself be guided down the Holts' walkway. But before Matt can knock or otherwise announce themselves, a door handle jostles, and hinges squeak.

"Welcome home! Please, come in," Shiro hears. Colleen, he thinks.

Matt warns him of the step up through the threshold. Colleen says, "Matt, put his things in the guest room, would you?"

"Yeah, Mom," Matt answers, and relieves Shiro of the duffel, and his footsteps trail off into the home.

_He's here!_

_Is it really..._

_..._ way _taller._

The whispered voices come from somewhere deeper within the house. His attention returns to Colleen when she says, "Here," and gently takes him by the hand and guides him forward. "Come have a seat."

"Thanks, Dr. Holt. It's nice to speak with you again. I appreciate you having me."

"It's quite alright. It's the least we can do to repay what you've done for our family. But just to warn you: your fan club is here, too."

She lets go when the back of his knees hits a seat cushion. He lowers himself, repeating, "Fan club?"

"They should be making their appearance at anytime now. Sam's making tea and sandwiches. Would you like some?"

"Yeah. Sure."

She walks away, and for a beat, he sits by himself in stillness, save for the bounce of his knee.

He goes rigid, however, when his ears pick up on shuffling feet, and the unintelligible whisper of voices returns.

Someone hisses, " _You first!_ You're the one who met him!"

More unintelligible hisses and whispers answer, and Shiro listens for a few ticks before calling out, "It's not nice to sneak up on someone. Especially someone with blindness."

Despite his teasing tone, it nonetheless seems to chasten them into silence. After clearing their throat, one of the voices finally says, "Sorry, Shiro. It's me."

"That you, Pidge?"

"Yeah. And some friends of mine. There's Hunk,"

"Uh, hi," this Hunk says. "Nice to meet you."

Shiro smiles, and holds out his hand in his direction. "Nice to meet you."

A warm, thick, and surprisingly strong hand shakes his. Pidge continues, "And there's Lance. Try not to judge him. He tries his best."

"Don't listen to her. I'm naturally at my best, even though few can truly appreciate it."

Oddly amused, Shiro smiles and shifts his open hand towards him. "Nice to meet you, too, Lance."

"Oh, yeah. Ditto," In a curious contrast, a slimmer, much more sinuous hand takes his. With naked awe, Lance says, "Wow. I'm shaking hands with you. Sorry if I'm kind of sweaty."

"Ugh, why did you guys have to insist on coming over?" Pidge says.

"Um, because you can't tell us that a legend is staying at your house and not invite us over to meet him? It's just a rule," Lance answers.

"But wasn't he like, a fugitive at one point?" Hunk says.

"That's because he had Galran - sorry - Altean tech," Pidge says. "He says _Alfor_ designed it."

"That's true," Shiro says.

"Wait, really?" Hunk shifts, and Shiro can sense him leaning in close to his right shoulder.

"Would you all give the man some space?" Sam calls out. "He's been through the ringer, even moreso than Matt and me."

"Yeah, I was starting to wonder why he looks so different now," Lance says. "The Galra really messed you up, huh?"

"That's rude, Lance," Pidge admonishes.

"It's okay," Shiro interjects, though he shifts awkwardly under their attention. "I am pretty messed up. You know, they say you should never meet your heroes."

He meant it to be jocular, but somehow, it comes out sounding more dejected than he intended. The trio are silent, and he grows even more uncomfortable with what feels like pity.

Pidge is the one who musters the courage to ask: "So, what happened?"

"Uh-uh, no, hold on just a dobash," Sam says, coming around. Ceramic clinks on what must be the coffee table. "Let's leave it up to him whether he's comfortable sharing with you all."

"It's fine, Sam," Shiro says. "And I won't be hurt if any of you decide to stop listening at any point."

"Yeah, right," Lance says. "A harrowing tale of danger and intrigue?  I'm here 'til the end. I only wish I had a huge bucket of popcorn right now."

"Me, too. But these sandwiches are excellent, Dr. Holt." Hunk says, chewing.

" _Guys_ ," Pidge scolds.

Shiro can't put his finger on why, but he finds the bona fide candor of these young cadets to be refreshing, if weirdly charming. He loosens up considerably, and even though he just met them, it feels like being among long lost friends. He sinks back into his seat with an ease he has not enjoyed in ages.

It’s then he realizes that he had yet to suffer any soreness in his side.  No pangs, no aches.  This 'fan club' was interesting, to say the least.

"Well, I invite you all to get comfortable, because it's a long story,” he says.

"Wait, wait!" Matt calls. "Wait for me."

Colleen, too, returns to the living space. They seat themselves in whatever available chairs, save for Lance who elects to sit on the floor. Shiro waits until they all settle, and it's quiet. The cushion on his left dips, and Sam offers him his cup of tea. "Start with the arm," he prompts. "And why you were calling out for Kogane when you woke up."

"Wait, Kogane?" Lance interjects. He repeats the name, placing a finger to his lip.

"He hasn't even started and you're interrupting," Pidge grumbles.

Lance forges on. "Wait, _Keith_ Kogane? Oh no. No, no, no. That Keith? Mr. Fancypants, Hothead, Big Shot Mullet? That jerk?"

"That's him," Shiro says fondly.

The air rushes Lance shoots up from the floor. " _He_ has something to do with this?"

"He has everything to do with this."

The heft of that statement silences Lance for a tick. Lowering himself slowly back to the floor, he says, "Alright. Well, then this better be _good._ "

"Just shut up and listen," Pidge says.

"Yeah, let 'im talk," Hunk adds.

Thus, over tea, and without any further interruption - save for the odd probing question - Shiro recounts what happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay. The 'paladins' are finally here!


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! Update! Somewhat more brief that I'd like, but tbh I'm pushing through a little spell of fatigue. I love my story though and want to finish it.
> 
> I think ~bi-weekly updates are what I can reliably stick with at this point, just as an fyi!

As Shiro recounts his experience, Lance, Pidge, and Hunk inch closer and closer over the course of the varga. Their rapt interest diverts only Sam sets down a second pot of tea alongside a third plate of sandwiches.

"So, you actually have a spacesuit?” Lance says, chewing.

“And they just gave it back to you?” Matt asks, seated on his right. He holds the duffel bag open while Shiro digs through the contents. Matt had fetched it during his tale, and Shiro glides his fingers over the smooth light armor buried within the bag. That he knows it by mere touch reassures him somehow. Its undeniable presence provides tangible, physical proof of everything. That it still belongs to him. That it was all real.

Shiro lifts the bulk of it - the chestpiece - of his pilot suit to his lap, his toes nudging at the open duffel bag on the floor. "Well, who knows what they did with the helmet and the sleeve," he says. "And I doubt they scrubbed off the dust, but yes.”

“I can’t believe the Lion really is a spaceship,” Pidge says, awe carried on her breath.

“I know,” Shiro says, smiling. “This was what Alfor had originally intended for Zarkon. He, Alfor, wanted to create a way for them to explore the stars together.”

Tinged with bitterness, Sam says, "And Zarkon just threw it away. All that potential knowledge and discovery, all of Alfor's faith and trust, just for power. I might not have believed it if I didn’t know first hand about the extent of his cruelty.”

Pidge spits, "Like I needed more reason to hate him. And Command is still too afraid of taking a stand and fighting back."

A spell of silent reflection passes over them, cold as fog. It lasts until Lance begins to shift in his seat on the floor.

"Well, I take back what I said," he says. "He might have been a show-off, but mullet didn't deserve what happened to him. I mean, besides being bonded to you. Seems like it was the best case scenario to come out of it.”

Shiro shakes his head. “I’d rather he still be here, in his own body.”

"Yeah. I can't believe he was part Galra this whole time, too. And that not all Galra are bloodthirsty warlords."

"And quintessence," Pidge says, contemplative. "It really exists. It flows in all of us. And it can be manipulated to such a degree."

"Our textbooks need some serious updating," Hunk says.

Lance says, "Yeah, what's up with that? Why does the Garrison insist on telling us that there's not even a possibility of these things?"

Sam takes a sip from his cup, then says, "Ignorance, and mixed with a good bit of denial. Even the comet wasn't a compelling enough reason for us to confront the outside world until Shiro here burst our bubble with Keith and the Black Lion. Accepting new information means changing how we think, how we operate. Upheaval like that that can be terrifying for those whose jobs rely on minimizing risk to the status quo."

With barely restrained contempt, Pidge adds, "This is the same Garrison that declared Shiro and my family were as good as dead, and that it was Shiro's fault."

"Okay, point taken," Lance says. "I guess that means that Keith didn't so much wash out, he was just way ahead of everyone else. Who knew that mullethead had it in him?"

At that, Shiro dips his chin, but remains silent.

Across from them, Colleen says, "I can't say I'm too surprised. People can find extraordinary courage for those they care about.”

Shiro huffs. On his left, Sam places a reassuring hand on his back. "I’d say you’ve answered my question as to why you called out for him."

"I just don't know what to do," Shiro blurts, dropping his head into his palm. He quivers, hating the stunned silence his outburst creates in the gathered audience. Pins and needles prickle at his empty shoulder, and he shudders again, his throat tight.

“There’s got to be some way we can help,” Lance says, a plea in his voice.

“Yeah, but what? There’s a whole mega-advanced army between us and Keith, and then there’s Zarkon himself,” Hunk says.

“But it's been quintants since he’s had both the Black Lion and Keith. As far as we know, there have been no reports of unusual activity, nor the Black Lion being sighted. Either Zarkon's still building up his forces, or something is giving him a problem,” Pidge says. “Maybe Princess Allura has a countermeasure now?”

Lance says, “Yeah, or these Blade rebels do.”

Shiro lifts his chin. He says, “We’re still bonded.”

"Huh?" Pidge asks.

"Our bond. It works through the Lion. Zarkon split us physically, but even after he took him, I was still able to talk to Keith. And last night, I could see through the Lion’s eyes.”

“So based on how the key’s supposed to work, then maybe Zarkon can’t operate it until he breaks that link between you?” Hunk says. "That's a good thing, right?"

“Right. But..." Shiro slumps back. "I think our bond may be weakening the longer I sit here and do nothing. Zarkon is relentless, and he will break us eventually if I can't figure out a better way to tap into the bond. Reinforce it. But I can't do it consciously. So far, these visions have only happened when I've been asleep."

A quiet moment passes over them, save for some thoughtful chewing and slurping. Not for the first time nor the hundredth, his shoulder jolts him, and his head is still far too silent. He draws into himself, wanting to run, to stay put, to scream, and to bury his head in the dirt all at once.

"What if you could?" Lance says.

Shiro unclenches, and cocks his chin. "What do you mean?"

Lance elaborates: "You and mullet still have your bond, but Zarkon's trying to interfere. Couldn't there be something we can make for you to, I don't know, broadcast you over that interference? Like an amplifier for a radio?"

After a few long, silent ticks, Pidge weighs in with her assessment: "Huh."

Lance says, "Is that more of a 'huh' like 'Wow, you really are an incredible genius, Lance!' or more of a 'huh' like I just spoke total gibberish?"

"More the former, actually," Hunk says. "And that's worth it's own separate 'huh'."

"Definitely," Pidge says.

“I keep telling you, I’m naturally amazing beyond comprehension sometimes,” Lance says.

"Wait, can you explain?" Shiro says.

"Yes, explain how I am a genius to Shiro,” Lance says.

“Actually, I’m curious about what you have in mind, too,” Sam says.

Pidge says, "Right. Well, Lance might be onto something. If we understood better how the arm integrated with your biology, we could attempt to make a bare bones reproduction. If it works well enough, it could augment the residual effects of Keith's quintessence in your nervous system."

Hunk adds, "So yeah, like an antenna amp. But for your arm. And for your quintessences. And not for like, talk radio. I mean, we could install that feature too, but that might be weird."

Pidge says, "Anyway, you would have to be the one to figure out how to tune it, as it were, but then you might be able to reestablish your connection at will."

"You...you could really build something like that for me?" Shiro says, awestruck.

Hunk says, "Well, I'd stress the word _might_. I wouldn't get too excited yet. It wouldn't be even close to the complexity of your original arm, not even an arm at all in fact. I'm not even sure how well we could build something like that with even advanced Garrison tech. You know, tech designed by people who think quintessence is mumbo-jumbo?"

"And it's be with stuff that isn't derived from comet material," Pidge adds. "We would also need a rough blueprint of the original arm. Unless you were okay with us to take a better part of your lifetime to figure it out."

Despite Hunk's warning otherwise, Shiro's mind races with hope and possibility. He says, “Maybe the Blade could help us with that. We’d just need to find a way to get in touch." He sits up and pivots to his left, towards Sam. "We need Krolia. She might know of a way that wouldn't be intercepted by Garrison command. Is she still in Garrison custody?”

Sam shifts in his seat. He clears his throat, then sets his tea cup down. “Well, I did learn something.”

Shiro senses his hesitation in the pause that follows, and his heart sinks. "What happened?"

"Garrison Medical treated her injuries as well as they could, then Command tried to arrange for her return to Galran territory. But sometime during the following night, however, she vanished."

"Vanished?" Shiro asks. Though somewhat relieved that she is no longer in Garrison custody, and that neither was she en route to the enemy's, he worries what became of her.

"Without a trace. She also refused to speak at all, to anyone, so there's no telling where she went," Sam says.

Shiro slumps backwards. "Then that leaves the Princess. She would have her father's plans, and they wouldn't include Diba-tech's tinkering."

"But how? We’d have to transmit from the Garrison, and given the tensions, any message to Altea inbound or outbound would get flagged for the Admiral’s review."

"Quiznak," Shiro hisses. He searches for any other loose thread he could pull, but this knot remains stubbornly tight.

“Wait a minute,” Matt pipes up. “When you came back to Terra in the Lion, Garrison surgeons were about to operate on you, right?"

"Right," Shiro affirms.

“To remove the arm as safely as they could, for you and for them,” Matt adds. “In that case-”

“Then they probably took scans of it!" Pidge says in a burst of excitement.

Matt sighs. "Way to steal my thunder, sis."

"Would those even work?” Shiro asks, skeptical.

Hunk hums, then says, “It's not ideal, but it might. And it'd be a lot easier than trying to figure out how to get in touch with a secret organization that doesn't want to be found."

Lance adds, "Or explaining to the Admiral why we need to make a direct phone call to the Princess.”

Pidge says, "Still won't be easy. We're only guessing that they exist, and we'd still have to retrieve them somehow. They're probably under strict lock-and-key."

There’s an expectant pause, after which Sam clears his throat and says, “That kind of intelligence would likely require command-level access. That’s above me, even if I did call in every last favor I can think of.”

“Same here, I’m afraid,” Colleen adds. “Just asking about them would raise some eyebrows.”

“Command-level, huh,” Shiro repeats to himself. It only takes him a moment before a certain commander springs to mind. He almost laughs at the twist of fate, and at the thought of what he has to do. “Well, Sam, I have a different kind of command-level access in mind that you might be able to pull off.”

“What’s that?”

“Think you can get me in touch with Iverson?”

* * *

 

Sam pages Iverson from his and Colleen’s home office workstation. High priority. Sam then leaves Shiro to await a response.

Shiro, meanwhile, keeps his nerves in check as the idle ticks go by. Inhale, exhale. In and out, in and out, the desk chair under him creaking in time as he swivels back and forth. He requested privacy, though murmurs of Sam and Colleen’s muffled voices filter in from somewhere within the house. Whatever they had said, however, shushes the boisterous banter among the teenagers. Their eager voices die down to no less eager whispers as the Holts wrangle them further away from their home office.

What easy acceptance they offered him, a broken, battered officer. He gave them a glimpse of their possible future should Zarkon gain the upper hand, yet they drew closer to him, not further. They sought to heal him, and not once recoiled from the effects of his living nightmare. The trio of cadets plant in him a kernel of curiosity he thought he only reserved for Keith. It occurs to him that Adam and his team had similar bright-eyed and bushy-tailed youths under his wing. Had he been so wrapped up in his career and in his watch over Keith, that never took better notice of the character of recruits that regularly passed through the Garrison halls? Or did something in these cadets resonate and draw them together, like he and Keith were?

Maybe he had just been away for too long.

Regardless, their compassion and moxie humbles him. Their optimism in this endeavor to repair him seeps into his bones, and in meditating on the pale beam of hope they’ve given him, he’s ready for when the work station finally beeps.

The console then blares with a gruff, familiar voice: “Dr. Holt, to what do I owe the-” Iverson stops himself. With an irritated huff, then says flatly, “Shirogane.”

“Sir,” Shiro greets.

Another rough grumble passes from Iverson. “What is the meaning of this? I received a priority notification from this residence with Dr. Holt’s authorization stamp. I see that you are not Dr. Holt. If this is some kind of joke, then I will terminate this call.”

“Wait! This isn’t a joke. This is actually a priority, sir.”

“No need for the sirs anymore. While I am glad to see you’re out of a hospital bed, I’m sorry to hear that you will not be returning to your uniform. Alright, what is it then? If you’re calling because you want to reconsider your resignation, then you’re barking up the wrong tree.”

“I would have spared your time and called Sanda myself if that were the case.”

“Then spit it out. This better be quick, and it better be good.”

“All I need is information. Scans, if there are any, or any sort analysis that you and your team took of my arm you were prepping me for surgery.”

A long, agonizingly quiet dobash goes by. Shiro wishes he could see the series of expressions that were probably crossing Iverson’s face.

Iverson inhales, then exhales. “Why?”

“It’s Keith Kogane.”

“Keith Kogane.” Iverson punctuates the name with a noise of disgust. “I should have guessed. Just when I thought I’d never hear _that_ name again. So you found that hooligan, did you?”

“It’s a long story, but he’s in serious trouble, and he needs my help, and fast.”

“And when is he ever not in trouble? If these scans were to exist, how in the sweet stars would they help that wayward soul?”

Shiro sighs. “I’d be able to reach out to him. Talk to him. Across an astral dimension. Accessible through my subconscious,” Shiro says, each detail hanging thick on his lips. It’s the honest truth, yet it sounds just like one of his embellished stories after he and Keith broke curfew. The irony is not lost on him, and he morbidly wonders if Iverson might still be, well, _Iverson_ , and still take him at his word.

Unfortunately, Iverson still seems tepid when he replies, “I’m not sure if I caught all of that.”

Shiro shakes his head. “Look, it doesn’t matter how. I know he made a lot of trouble for you— we, made a lot of trouble for you, but you’re the only one who can help us right now. Can you tell me whether or not the scans exist?”

“Even if they did, you ought to already know the outcome. I can’t be disseminating classified intel to anyone who asks, especially under false pretenses.”

“Am I _anyone_ , sir? I’m the cadet you said had the kind of promise you might see once in a lifetime. I’m the officer whom you respected and admired because I never quit, you said. I’m the prisoner who had that arm given, then ripped away along with my sight, no thanks to a Garrison that seems to forget that it serves Terra and our people, not Zarkon and the Empire.”

“That’s enough,” Iverson snaps. “I didn’t forgive this deception to be lectured by you. What if the Admiral found this out? She’d probably have my ass just for entertaining this idea, and she may even have you arrested.”

“Is that all it takes to scare you? What would the harm be, even if she did? There’s no one else in Terra who could possibly have a use for this information except for me, and there’s a good chance it may not even work. They’d be just as worthless then. I’m not asking for a weapon here, Commander. I’m asking for what amounts to a telephone.”

A pause. Shiro hopes it is due to Iverson turning over his words. With opportunity ripe, Shiro goes in for the kill: “I’m not asking you because I don’t care about you risking your neck. I’m asking because I respect your judgment, sir. I don’t always like that you’re so strict, but I respect that you’re always fair. You knew it wasn’t fair what they did to me, even if you didn’t want to go against orders. This is your chance to make it even now.”

Iverson scoffs. “Don’t start buttering me up. I’m still not clear on what you mean by ‘telephone’, as you call it."

"Like I said, it involves astral dimensions and my subconscious.  I could spend the next few dobashes going into detail if it would reassure you?"

"Uh, no.  I don't think I really want to know.  I'll just take your word for it.”

Shiro inwardly pumps his fist, but his poker face remains impeccable as he weathers another contemplative pause from the commander.  The latter then says, “You really want them, huh?”

“Yes. Desperately.  And as much as he rubs you the wrong way, I don't think you really want Keith to suffer.”

The heavy drumming of Iverson’s thick fingers comes through over the comm. “Quiznak. Quiznak, _quiznak_. Just when I was looking forward to a life of peace and quiet after that cadet of yours quit.”

There’s another lingering pause, and Shiro knows better than to risk a sale. He stays quiet, letting Iverson have the space to wrestle with whatever moral conundrum that has him preoccupied.  But then, he hears a faint pitter-patter. Keyboard keys. Iverson says, “Not like I have much hair left to lose, though.”

Shiro’s pulse jumps, and his red-tinted eyes alight.

Iverson goes on, continuing to strike keys as he speaks: “They’re here alright. But I'm not going to risk sending them through my office station right now. I’ll transmit them in an encrypted message within the varga.”

“Thank you,” Shiro says, breathless. “Thank you, thank you!”

“Just promise me that when you do see that mouthy little punk, you tell him he needs to learn how to get himself out of his own scrapes. Then you can finally quit having to come to his rescue, and stop having to worry me about it!”

Shiro breaks into a wide grin. “Whatever you say, Iverson.”

“And lastly, after this, I don’t ever want to see you again under these circumstances. You pull this foolishness on me again, and it’ll be Dr. Holt I put over a barrel. You hear me?”

“I promise you won’t have to worry about this again. And we never had this conversation.  You have my word.”

“Good. Your word is worth a lot, Shirogane. Iverson out.”

Inhale, exhale. The exhale blows out through Shiro’s lips in a long gush. He floats, weightless even in this small victory. It propels him upright, the chair creaking as he staggers to his feet. With slow and careful steps, he rejoins the family inside, cradling his own fragile beam of hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is always appreciated!
> 
> Feel free to swing by my [dumblr](https://holysmotez.tumblr.com/) by the way.


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hallelujah! An update!
> 
> Welp, I obviously lied about my update schedule. lol. Standard explanation of work and life kicking my butt, plus I've been having to overcome a crisis of confidence about the quality of this story. I kept writing and rewriting shit, which was a sign I needed to take a break from it, get a breather, maybe get some sleep. But regardless of my emotional state, I have no intention of abandoning this story. Thank you for being patient!

Between analyzing the scans of his arm, drawing up the list of requisite materials, and configuring the basic initial framework, there is little more for Shiro to do but to exercise his patience until Hunk and Pidge were ready to begin an install.

At Sam’s urging, he already has one task assigned to help keep him busy.

_Rest. It’s not the same as being idle, you know._

_I know, Sam._

Shiro couldn’t be idle if he tried. Rest, at least, serves a purpose. Even the Garrison had emphasized rest to be as important to personal and professional success as a well-concocted strategy.

Logically, he understands this. Practically, he has every advantage to that end. Sam and Colleen may have profusely apologized for the lumpy mattress in the guest room, but when the mattress springs dip unevenly under his backside, there is no exaggeration when Shiro let them know that it was the most comfortable place to sleep he had been given since his first night at the Garrison as a cadet.

Between his unsettled mind and his aching shoulder, however, he only dangles over the last mile-long inch of precipice. He tosses and turns. His mind still races. His irritation mounts. Desperate for the last push, he clutches at the softness of the sheets and listens to the white noise of voices in the house. Still nothing. He’s kept even further away from the plunge when he grows frustrated over his own frustration.

It _is_ a small bed. He cannot turn very far in either direction before the edge greets him. Most beds would be small for him nowadays. It had been no surprise when, at the hospital, he learned that he had gained nearly a half dozen kilos from his ordeal, perhaps more when factoring in atrophy during his coma.

Keith must have changed a lot, too.

Shiro blinks, his eyes drooping as he settles in under the sheets.

Shiro never let on during their friendly sparring matches, but it was clear early on that Keith contained more power per square inch than his appearance might suggest. His body type wasn’t built for volume as it was for density. If Keith did put on anymore mass, it probably would have been matched proportionally by the mysterious gravity that kept it all tightly bound.

He tries to recall Keith’s face, but aged an extra deca-phoeb or so. Had it really been that long since he had seen him?

Shiro misses studying that face, and the dynamic changes in Keith’s volcanic exterior as Garrison life honed his mind and body, as though he were shaping and cooling with exposure to the air. Though he was raw and untempered when they first met in both essence and form, Keith was by no means dull from the outset. Sharp, violet eyes. Sharp jaw, cheeks. Sharp sweeps of unruly locks, black as night. Sharp tongue to match. Sharp, sharp, sharp.

Would the deca-phoeb that had passed since Kerberos have finally quenched and hardened those elegant edges? Just how dangerous would it be to reach out, just to run his fingertips across them? Would he ever get the chance?

The violet eyes he conjures in his imagination keep watch as Shiro at last slips from the precipice of wakefulness, and he plunges into the black.

* * *

 

Both a few ticks and a lifetime seem to pass him by when he next surfaces.

He floats up to a Galran hangar, seen through the Lion’s eyes high above its floor. The same one, he figures, but the place is darker now, lit only by the scattered red glow of industrial lamps hanging overhead. At first blush, it appears as though shuttered and deserted, as though the Lion were a giant sarcophagus from a long-extinct civilization. The frozen dobashes that pass make him increasingly unsettled when he registers no movement, no sign of life whatsoever.

A lamp bulb pops and flickers. With it, the vision snaps to inside the cockpit. In an instant, he is brought face-to-face with the pocked moonscape of Zarkon’s visage.

The suddenness is enough to startle, even though he has no lungs to gasp, no heart to lurch. Zarkon, however, does not seem to notice his presence. He instead sits motionless in the pilot's chair, eyes closed and features blank as a statue. Zarkon’s clawed fingers tighten around the control sticks, and Shiro then notices the gruesome mismatch.

Zarkon’s arm seethes with corruption from his fingers to his collar. The skin is as black and gnarled as demon’s hide, as though an infusion of cursed blood had consumed the entire right side of his body. The plating, charred and thick, warps sharply with knots and spikes, and sanguine energy fumes and pulses out from between the seams like magma. So too from apertures bored into the shoulder plate. Eddies of latent energy smolder out from the joints of his fingers, and altogether, it makes Shiro’s former black and gunmetal plates and red cabling seem like a pale imitation, rather than the precursor.

This had to be a nightmare. Shiro hopes it’s not real. But figment or not, he might have thought Zarkon freshly deceased if not for the subtle rise and fall of his shoulders. Rise, and fall. He sits in the midst of some meditation, and in a passing thought, Shiro recognizes the approach. He uses himself when confronted with a difficult problem. It’s not a terribly uncommon approach, after all. He refuses to even broach the possibility that they might share anything in common.

Rise, and fall. Then, yellow eyes pop open. Zarkon leans forward, his eyes narrowing as if studying a curious insect. On instinct, Shiro recoils, and the inexplicable urge to hide himself grips him as though he were that insect, terribly lost, and scurrying for shelter across the dash.

"Ah. I think I have an understanding of the problem," Zarkon murmurs.

The Emperor raises his demonic hand from the controls. His black fingers curl into a fist. He then jams the knuckles into the key port, and turns the device with savage force.

Shiro shouts, or he would have when a spike of discharge lances through him. The sensation of being caught in riptide seizes him next, dragging and thrusting him back and down until he can no longer see the cockpit whatsoever.

He breaks the surface of the waking world with a gasp. "No," he whispers, running a hand through his hair, his forelock damp with sweat.

He falls back on the bed. His chest rises and falls as he continues to catch his breath. A rush of panic keeps his heart racing. He had to go back. He shuts his eyes, once more thinking of Keith in his head, by his side.

Pure exhaustion does eventually overcome his nagging worry. When he wakes again, however, it’s with the same sheets under his fingers, and with a cold realization: he actually slept. Uninterrupted. Not by visions, not by visits to the realm between them.

“Quiznak,” he whispers. _They were running out of time._

* * *

 

It takes another full cycle before they're ready to begin.  After a promise not to ask how he managed to raid Garrison surplus, Matt produces screws, bolts, cabling, and scrap for their endeavor. _Borrowed_ , he claims. _What?  It wasn’t_ that _much. They’ll hardly miss it._

Sam, meanwhile, gets his hands on a supply of sensors, batteries, and heat sinks. Colleen gets them serums, solvents, gels, and additional sensor equipment from her greenhouse laboratory. Pidge strips any and all various robotic projects of wiring, circuit boards, and even more heat sinks. Even her award-winning prototypes are not spared, cannibalized without hesitation.

As for Hunk, he delivers an entire sackful of nuts, bolts, clamps, and tools borrowed from his family's body shop.

And Lance-- Lance brings himself. Which, given the ease with which he talks Shiro through the procedure, turned out to be just as critical of a piece to their project.

_Doing good. You're the boss, Shiro. We’re with you._

In that moment, Shiro understands Lance a little better.  More attuned with people rather than machines.  The young man rests a firm hand on Shiro's left shoulder, full of confidence and encouraging words. He had a surprising talent for giving Shiro something else to divert his attention and focus on besides the jolts and noises beside him that made his skin crawl, his stomach lurch, and his pulse race. None of them had any idea what to expect once they begin to expose his wound, but the sound of Lance’s steady voice keeps his anxiety a bearable level, even as his thumb taps at the felt wrapped around the wooden spoon handle in his lap. A makeshift bite stick.

“This might take us a while. If you need to us to stop at any point, let us know,” Pidge had said to him when she took his hand and pressed the spoon handle into it.

It goes unused, even as dobashes stretch into vargas.

Though there had been tempting moments. First, when they stripped away the metal cap the surgeons installed. Second, when they applied a generous wash of disinfectant over the pockets of tender flesh between the shorn cables and exposed circuits. Third, and based on hodgepodge list of materials and substitutions they drummed up, the first of many dozen connections weren’t going to be fun, either.

Fortunately, bit by bit, the rawness of his discomfort fades as Hunk inserts, screws, and tests each piece. All the little clicks and snaps get easier to listen to. Keyboard keys clatter as Pidge types away, monitoring outputs and talking Hunk through integrating the more complicated electronics. As the various parts and rigs came online, the throbs of his shoulder diminish. Then there’s the quiet, single-minded focus in his companions that he identifies with, and the present moment, Shiro revels in being able to breathe again in safety.

Lance gives him a general idea of the appearance of the arm when he quips, "You know, it really just looks like you guys shrunk a broadcast tower and bolted it onto him."

"It's not like we have a lot of time to make it pretty, Lance," Pidge retorts. Sitting on the floor nearby, her fingers pitter-patter across a keyboard. "We're aiming strictly for function over style here."

Hunk brushes his fingers across the shoulder seam. He says, "I think it looks pretty good, considering we’ve been doing all this in a single afternoon. It doesn't look anything like the scans, but I think it looks it's more 'Terran scrapyard' as opposed to 'Galran underworld'."

"Can't say I mind that one bit," Shiro says.

Pidge says, "Fortunately, the surgeons were in enough of a hurry to get you closed up that they left some converters and biofilters relatively intact. This might have taken a few more phoebes otherwise."

"Converters and biofilters?"

"Basically, they're the parts that pass your brain's biological signals into the cybernetic ones. The Garrison doesn't have any technology even remotely like it, so we would have had to pretty much reverse engineer our own versions if they had all been removed."

Hunk says, "And from scans. Ugh. I don’t think it would even be possible. They were thorough, but not that thorough," Hunk says with a shudder. "Unfortunately, time-saving has its risks in this case. We're having to rout everything through the intact ports. Hopefully they can handle the extra load."

Shiro frowns. "What if they don't?"

"Are you guys trying to say that his arm might explode?" Lance says, voicing Shiro’s exact fear. "Did we go through all that just for you to attach a bomb to him?"

Hunk pauses his work to say, "No, Lance. Please, as if we would ever do such a thing. The answer is _definitely_ no. Um, that’s right, isn’t it Pidge?"

She sighs, pausing her work as well. "In all likelihood, an overload would just make it shut down, not explode."

"That is not very reassuring," Lance says. "I think I'm going to stand over here now, behind the tool shelves. No offense, Shiro."

Despite the not-zero chance of mortal danger, Shiro smiles. "That's alright. I trust you all know what you’re doing.”

“Thanks, Shiro. I'll be done here soon, Pidge,” Hunk says.

"Copy. Everything's green here," she replies.

But as she says it, Shiro feels an uncomfortable pressure begin to settle in his shoulder. It worsens as Hunk turns the screwdriver at his elbow, and throbs and tingles flow and build like drips from a leak.

"Okay," Hunk says. The screwdriver and his hand leaves Shiro's shoulder as he draws back. "Should be stable enough. How does it feel?"

The tingles stop, but the pressure remains. Shiro swallows. "Weird. Could be worse."

"Hmm. Are you able to move the elbow? You should be able to,” Hunk asks.

Shiro exerts. His shoulder tenses, but the desired movement doesn't transfer further in the slightest. It’s as though the entire rig were a sack of bricks bolted to him, yet strangely, he doesn't think it's the weight that resists him. The odd, uncomfortable pressure does, and it gets worse with every passing second. He grunts when he tires and relaxes.

"Very weird," Pidge says. "Motor functions appear stable. It should be working."

"It feels, ah, like something might be wound up too tight," Shiro grits out.

"Maybe you just have to give it a crank," Lance says. "Like a motorboat?"

Hunk scoffs. "Oh, sure, Lance. We just forgot to install the rip cord."

But at the suggestion, Shiro turns his lip. Leaving the spoon balanced on his lap, he reaches and gropes until he grasps the thick forearm of the rig. "May I?"

"What’s that?" Pidge asks.

Shiro squeezes and yanks the arm toward his chest. The hinge slides, and he gasps. The red in his eyes flicker when something gives way, and a wave of euphoria crashes through him. All that uncomfortable pressure bursts and diffuses down from his shoulder until it settles into the basin where his hand would be. Through the metal and wire, he can sense a low-grade humming there.

He gulps down air as the discomfort and heady relief recedes. A roll of sweat drips down his temple.

"Quiznak," Lance says. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," Shiro breathes. He releases the forearm, and he flexes his new arm again. It swings freely on its hinge, and he smiles.

"I can't believe that worked," Hunk says. “But please don’t make a habit of being so rough with our experimental tech. It could explode.”

The room falls silent.

“I’m kidding!” Hunk says.

Buoyant, Lance says, “Well nevermind all of that! It worked, and that's awesome, right? We did it, you guys!"

"Let's hold our horses. It's one thing that Shiro can move his elbow, but it's another whether he can commune with someone's spirit across the continent," Pidge says.

“Well, when you put it like _that_ ,” Lance huffs.

"Still, it's impressive you were able to make this work at all," Shiro says. He closes his eyes when a flutter develops at the base of his skull. Not uncomfortable, but noticeable. It lacks the same warmth as Keith's presence, but right now he'll settle for any bit of candlelight in the dark.

Hunk says. "Everything looks good from here. Nothing feels too loose, does it?"

Shiro jostles as he exercises the hinge. Faint whines and whirls answer with each movement. "A little on the hefty side, but it feels fine."

Pidge says, "Don't try to move your wrist or fingers. You can't. We decided to forgo any extra joints in the interest of time, and to reduce the pull on the bioconverters.” Another flurry of keystrokes follow her statement. “Confirm everything looks nominal here.”

"Like you said, though, the real test is whether it will do what I-, what we truly need it to do," Shiro says. He sighs, bringing the arm to rest on his thigh. He gingerly runs his human fingers over the thick, smooth tips of the artificial ones. He continues to explore down the wrist and forearm, tracing the ribbed metal and maze of cables threaded in and around it.

The keystrokes slow to a halt. Pidge says, "When do you want to try it?"

The flutter at Shiro spine thrashes, as though a small bird were caged there. He says, "Right now."

“Right now? You sure?” Hunk asks. “Don’t you think you should give yourself more time to get used to it first?”

“No,” Shiro says, recalling Zarkon, and his nightmarish arm. The way that Zarkon pushed him out of the Lion like nothing. “There’s no time left to spare.”

“You should probably sit on the floor, then.” Lance says.

Shiro slips from the stool. He sways, his balance thrown by the bulk and shape of his new arm. Once recovered, he lowers himself to the cold concrete floor with ankles crossed, bringing the limb to cradle in his lap. He inhales, and exhales through his nostrils. Inwardly, he acknowledges and lets the quiet attention of his friends pass over him.

“I’ll be right behind you,” Lance assures him.

“Thanks. Alright. Here goes nothing,” Shiro says.

Taking another measured breath, he closes his eyes. As the darkness swallows up the red blanketing his vision, the little bird in the base of his skull beats its wings. It’s the bond, a familiar knowing it in his heart. That he senses the presence of the bond at all while conscious is promising, but it’s wild, elusive. Terrified. Like it doesn’t understand where it is, this new place, and how it ended up here. Shiro remains patient. He continues to breathe in, then out, hoping to soothe the little creature. His shoulders rise, fall. He hopes it might help calm the race of his own heart as well. In, out.

As time draws out, he brings forward his open trust and goodwill to the surface of his heart. The panicked fluttering begins to ease. Its fear, their fear, evaporates in the stillness. Only then does he slowly, carefully reach out.

 _Keith_ , he whispers in his mind, holding still and silent. Though their bond is fundamental, the form it takes now is new and alien. Even as a frightened, lonely young man, Keith had to accept him and his presence on his own terms. None of it could be rushed. None of it could be forced.

His measured breaths falter when a gentle pressure meets his outstretched hand. It’s so delicate that he could have imagined it.

It tears back from him. The flutter stops, abrupt.

 _It’s okay._   _It's me._ Shiro’s throat works around his name, but a shock thumps him in the chest, and the floor underneath him crumbles. Rudely, gravity takes hold. He plummets down, his reflexes spring. He gets his feet under him just before he hits the ground, crouching with the impact and catching himself on his hands. He puzzles at the rough grass under his palms, slicing up between his fingers. The blades are black, its tips tinged blood red.

As he stands, his attention snaps to his right, and to his rebuilt arm. With the red film removed in this incorporeal realm, he can now take a good look. Black cables and rainbow wire thread among the struts of its gray skeleton, blotched with tarnish. The tangles squeeze through a hinge of the elbow to wrap around the forearm, the latter little more than a single strut. The twisted wires terminate at a block where his hand would be, and his ‘fingers’ stick out as uneven prongs capped with small blue bulbs. The whole rig ought to have been too crude to travel with him into this plane, but his curiosity about that had to wait.

Tearing his eyes away, he looks skyward, where the sanguine stars still glow and pulse in the gaps between red-tinged stormclouds. “Keith!” Shiro shouts. “I’m here!” He walks forward, his feet shuffling through the endless macabre meadow stretched out underneath the bloody sky.

He freezes his steps when a voice addresses him.

“You are truly a stubborn worm, Terran.”

Zarkon. His hateful quintessence, sharp like a biting wind, blows against his back. Shiro's lip twitches, and his fist clenches. The ethereal atmosphere prickles with the dark Emperor’s malevolent quintessence, intensifying with proximity.

"You have the audacity to return here, yet it seems you are still too cowardly to face me. Your beloved friend showed no such fear. You are unworthy.”

Shiro pivots. A hulking jet black fist rushes to shatter Shiro’s jaw, but he sidesteps just out of its reach.

Zarkon, hulking and close upon him, grunts with annoyance. The twisted plates of his right arm seethe and crackle with red power. His yellowed eyes narrow to slits on his stony face as he gives chase, throwing out another haymaker. Shiro ducks it, and spins to dodge a hard kick. As the advantage of Zarkon’s ambush wears off, Shiro lashes out with his own fists, his restored arm sweeping to connect in flashes of blue arcs. He throws out a right hook, grunting when Zarkon catches him by the wrist.

Zarkon sneers at his hand's blue light. "I see you have reconstructed a pale imitation my work. Small effort from small minds. Yet another insult we will not endure."

Zarkon twists his captured limb. Shiro cries out at the torsion at the seam, but lashes back with a kick brutal enough to dislodge himself. He follows with an uppercut, but Zarkon phases as if he were a phantom, then vanishes like one. Another cold wind caresses the back of Shiro's neck, and in the instant he spins back around, he narrowly avoids having his skull split under Zarkon's fist.

“You could never have hoped to unlock the Lion's full grace, though I can see why it favored you at first. You Terrans are persistent, aren’t you? That is why I have decided that your people must be utterly crushed first, before I deal with the Altean plague,” Zarkon says.

At that, Shiro’s lip quivers. He bares his teeth and shouts, “Unworthy? Look around you. Don’t you get it yet? The Lion _suffers_ under you.”

Strangled and demonic, the Lion’s roar peals overhead like thunder.

Zarkon glances to the sky, sneering. “You should not speak about things you know so little about. The Lion suffers because it cannot tolerate our discordant quintessences. You are the one who has introduced this chaos into the order of things. You are no better than a disease here. Once you are removed, this fever will abate.”

Like a wild animal, Zarkon starts in again, slashing at Shiro with open palms. The deadly points of his claws on one hand, sharp fingernails on the other swipe at his face and belly. “And it seems your dear friend, and my good soldier, has a problem recognizing you for what you are.”

Shiro stays just out of range of the onslaught until Zarkon phases again and appears before him, far too close. Dark talons tear downward, and with two hands to Zarkon’s monstrous mitt, Shiro blunts its momentum just overhead. “I’m not talking about what we are, but who,” Shiro grinds out. In the span of a heartbeat, Shiro adjusts his grip, pulls Zarkon down, and aims his knee up to bury into the underside of Emperor’s jaw.

But Zarkon rips away from him, and staggers backward. His image flickers like a broken up transmission. He chuckles, but Shiro knows he had caught him by surprise. With a hard edge that belies his amusement, Zarkon snarls, “And you think your presence here is some great panacea? And you probably think me the arrogant one.”

Zarkon flickers again. He flinches, as though fighting to stay solid, but with a fanged grunt, he warps from sight. Keeping his wits and senses sharp, Shiro shouts, “You don’t care about the Lion, or Keith. You just want power for yourself.”

The air around him pulses with Zarkon’s reply: “Ah, but that is where you are wrong. Your friend needs an open sky. One who gives him reason to soar. You are not that open sky, but a tether. Fortunately for him, I am here to set him free, and thus the Lion. Something you failed to do. You simply don’t have the breadth.”

Thunder cracks through the sky above.  Just as charged and potent, Shiro replies, “I never claimed to be perfect. You’re right, there’s a lot of things about the Lion, quintessence, and the comet I don’t understand. But there’s one thing I do know more about than you ever will."  He turns about face. “Which is how I know you’re dead wrong.”

“And what’s that, fool?”

“I know Keith. He was always free. That never changed when we met. But with each other’s help, given freely, we would have seen the stars. We will see the stars.”

The terrible, strangled roar resounds once more, and the grass blows away like candle smoke. His eyes widen when above him, a pair of feline red eyes look down and pin him to the spot. A cold burst frosts against his back, and he knows it’s too late. When he turns about, the vice grip of Zarkon’s icy hand wraps around throat.

Shiro thrashes and gasps. Zarkon lifts him in an echo of his plight before. The Emperor says, “Enough prattle. Aren't you tired yet? Exhausted? Don't you want the fighting to end? Just give up, and it will."

"No," Shiro chokes out. "I won’t. He never did."

The Lion growls. The fault line of Zarkon's lip breaks into a smirk, but his yellow eyes carry nothing but anger. “He still believes your lies. Your bond is truly strong, I will grant you that. But perhaps he needs to hear for himself how unsuited you are to be his true master.”

"Master?" Shiro huffs, gasping. “That’s why-, ah, why you won't win.”

Zarkon sneers, his jagged teeth bare. “Admit it," he says, squeezing his neck tighter. "Say it to him, and I will snuff you out painlessly. Say that I am the better master. That I can show him, not how to weather the storm, but how to thrive in it!”"

“I’m-, not his master."

Zarkon grins.

But Shiro then says, "But I never was. I never wanted to be. I’m his friend. I’ll always be his friend. Our is a bond of equals. I don’t want him to weather the storm, nor to thrive in it,” Even as Zarkon’s lip quivers with irritation, Shiro gives the rest of the oxygen in his lungs to shout, “I want him to _rise above it!_ ”

The voice is distorted, distant, as if calling up from a deep well. Keith, Shiro thinks, but he can no longer call back, only spasm and gasp like a hooked fish.

“What-” Zarkon starts, looking up. His eyes widen in shock, as if he had only just noticed the pair of lion’s eyes staring down on them. He doesn’t notice blue bulbs of Shiro’s arm gleaming, and when a jolt pops like static. At that, Zarkon hisses and releases Shiro’s throat.

Shiro drops to his knees, oxygen rushing back to his head. He leans forward on his hands, just barely keeping himself from collapsing as he sucks in breath. Then, he pales with astonishment when he sees it. A block of ice expands and crystalizes around Zarkon’s ankle and knee. At the same time, an eruption of earth restrains his other leg, rooting him to the spot. Finally, a tangle of vines snake up from the grass and locks down his left shoulder and arm. His corrupted arm remains free, but even that has lost its menacing glow.

The Emperor roars and scowls, baring his teeth like a wild beast caught in a hunter’s trap. “This...this impurity! You have tainted my work to its core-- but I will purge it. I will purge it, if it's the last thing I do!"

With the present advantage, Shiro bolts to his feet and raises his fist.

_Shiro!_

He halts with his fist pulled back. He flinches, staggering when his right arm grows unbearably hot. A sensation he doesn’t think he should be able to feel, but it’s as if his arm from shoulder to elbow had burst into flame.

Zarkon snorts. His craggy lip pulls into a hideous grin. "But perhaps I won't need to do it myself. His fervor will be more than enough to burn you to ash."

The restraints crumble when Zarkon vanishes in a phase of violet mist. Shiro looks up and about and shouts, “Keith!”

“Shiro!"

"Keith!"

"Shiro, wake up! Wake up!"

He jolts.  His astral self slams back into his corporeal one with a flinch.  Back into the blinding red. No longer sitting, his back presses into the hard floor and vaguely, he feels fingers cradling the back of his skull.

"I think he's coming to."

Lance's statement comes from above him. To his left side, by his wrist, Pidge says, "Are you okay?"

"That was close. I thought we killed you," Hunk says, by his leg.

"Not dead yet," Shiro says, wincing. He grunts, slipping his left elbow underneath him to prop himself up. Sweat drips down his face. It hurts to swallow, his throat and tongue like sandpaper. He strains against his right arm, but doesn’t budge, feeling as heavy as an anvil next to him. He still feels the terrible heat.

“Uh, guys,” Lance says, his tone ominous. As he says it, the acrid stench of smoke invades Shiro’s nose.

“Quiznak!” Hunk blurts, scrambling to his feet.

“Am I seriously about to explode?” Shiro asks, riled at having leapt from frying pan into actual, literal fire.

“No, but it’s just a little overheating,” Pidge says. “Extinguisher’s next to the lightswitch!”

“A _little?_ ” Lance repeats.

“Extinguish-?” Shiro also repeats with similar incredulity, when a blast of carbon dioxide slams into him. He sputters and coughs as short bursts of it blanket his right side and bowl across his face. They keep coming, and Shiro can hardly take enough breath in to say, “Is this necessary?”

“Okay, I think that’s enough, Hunk,” Pidge says, and the extinguishing comes to a merciful stop. In fairness, the blaze in Shiro’s arm does start to cool. With a sigh, however, Pidge adds, “But it looks like we’ve got a lot of repairs ahead of us.”

“But did it work?” Hunk asks, setting the extinguisher clinking against the concrete floor.

“Shiro, you were out like a light for a few dobashes,” Lance says. “I was afraid we’d have to take you back to the hospital.”

Shiro sits up further, or as well as he can with his right arm so inert. The recent memories come rushing back to him, visceral enough to make him shiver. “Yeah, it worked. Better than expected, in fact. But...it wasn’t enough. I still couldn’t drive him out, or get Keith back.”

“Him?” Lance asks.

“Zarkon.”

“Oh. Wait, Zarkon? You fought with him just now?”

Pidge says, “Well, that would help explain the overload.”

Shiro is quiet for a long moment.  Quiet, until the drying sweat on his brow grows tacky. He then says, “We need Allura.”

As soon as her name leaves his mouth, a shrill, but familiar jingle cuts in, drawing the attention it’s supposed to.

“That’s a Garrison alert,” Shiro observes.

“Yeah, mine,” Pidge says. "That's weird. Classes aren't in session today."

Then, another one goes off. Then, a third.

“That’s all of us,” Hunk says.  Clothes rustle as they each retrieve their academy-issued communicators on their person.

"All personnel are to report for duty. Junior officers and cadets," Lance reads off. "This is not a drill?"

The words are hardly out of his mouth before a quake rumbles through the roof.  The entire house shudders, and their scattered tools and scrap metal rattle about. For several seconds the vibrations roll over them, followed by sharp gale that beats against the garage door, loud as a squall.

"It's supposed to be sunny out today," Lance says.

Perturbed, Pidge says, “I don’t think that was a thunderstorm.”

A door bursts open. “Guys.” Matt’s voice says. He slaps something, and the gears of the garage door grind.  A wedge of sunlight bursts through the room. Shiro hoists himself up when the stampede of feet dash outside. After a pause, Pidge says, “I think maybe we ought to report for duty, guys."

Shiro can see little more than bright red, but his next breath halts in his lungs when Hunk says, "Those...those are Diba-tech carriers!"

"The Empire," Lance says, breathless. "They're..."

A lump the size of a brick sinks deep into Shiro's stomach. "They're invading."


End file.
